


Done with Death

by emmiemac



Series: The Cleganes in Winterfell [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Murder Mystery, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wars have ended but winter has not and those in Winterfell and the winter town must still work hard to survive; but after braving cold and battles and starvation they are horrified to discover there is a murderer in their midst. Death, fear, suspicion and rumours all threaten the new and tenuous life Sansa and Sandor are trying to build for themselves, their family and the North.</p><p>DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on characters from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sandor stepped out of his chamber into the passageway. The soldiers who had woken him held torches and he squinted at the glare of the light and held himself far from their flames.

“Forgive me, m’lord,” the young man said, “but the Blackfish sent us to wake you. Says you needs come quickly: there’s a dead man outside the walls, and it be no accident he says, m’lord.”

 _Seven buggering hells_ , he thought, _won’t_ _he still be dead at daylight?_ But he was commander now, and consort to the lady of Winterfell, and so outranked all other men.

“Let me dress,” he rasped. He slept naked though it was not yet spring, and had only wrapped himself quickly in a fur from the bed.

When he slipped back into the sparely furnished, dark chamber he saw that Sansa had woken and lit a candle and was sitting up now with a worried look on her beautiful face.

“Sandor?” she asked anxiously.

“Go back to sleep, little bird,” he told her as he pulled his clothes from the wooden bench where he had dropped them. He pulled on woolen smallclothes, breeches, a rough linen shirt and wool tunic. _Gods, it’s bloody cold; even in here._ The fire was only just glowing embers since their firewood was rationed, as was nearly everything else in Winterfell.

“Why did they wake you, my love?”

Sandor grunted as he pulled on his boots.

“A dead man,” he replied shortly, “outside the walls. Might be they heard I dug graves and think I miss it.” He turned to look at her now. “You should sleep,” he counseled, nodding to her middle though she had only told him of their impending second child days before and would not show for several turns of the moon yet. There was only a taut firmness that could be felt if he ran his hand over the bare skin of her lower belly, which he had done every night since with pleasure.

Sansa smiled sweetly at his concern and pushed her thick auburn hair back from one side of her face. It made Sandor want to sink his hands in it and bury his face in her soft neck.

“I won’t be long,” he reassured her instead, and he picked up his heavy cloak and turned to join the soldiers outside his door.

…….

Their feet crunched on the packed snow that covered the ground between the outer walls of Winterfell and the edge of the winter town. There was another small group of soldiers with torches standing around what was unmistakably a body on the ground, dark and sprawled against the cold white expanse. Their breaths fogged in the frigid night air, and some had ice forming on their beards or held scarves crusted with frost before their faces. Sandor approached his wife’s great uncle who looked decidedly grim.

“Blackfish,” he acknowledged him.

“Clegane, sorry to wake you but I thought you needed to see this.”  He gestured to one young soldier who lowered his torch closer to the body. There was blood staining the snow around the man’s head and a sizeable rock nearby. Sandor grunted his understanding and looked back to the Blackfish with the same grim expression.

“Might it be he just slipped and fell, m’lord,” one young soldier piped up, “and hit that rock?”

“He’s face down, soldier,” Sandor told him, “and that rock is not big enough to have opened his skull: that’d be his brains you see.” He indicated the streaks of clotted blood on top of the snow with a gloved hand. “Hit hard and more than once, I’ll wager: you can see the blood and gore flew nigh far.” As he spoke he heard a man step back to turn away and retch. “There’s no snow on the rock either: it had to have been picked up from the ground, and the bloodstain is beneath it.” He nodded to the Blackfish. “You judged well this was no accident,” he rasped.

The Blackfish looked up at him from under grey, bushy eyebrows. “No,” he agreed solemnly in his smoky voice, “this was murder.”

…….

“Anyone know this man?” Sandor asked gruffly when they had turned him over.

“Aye, Flyn Snow; well, Flyn Smith now: works at the blacksmith’s in winter town, m’lord,” a soldier answered.

The Blackfish sighed and shook his head. “We didn’t need to lose a smith,” he observed, “nor any tradesman for that matter.”

“You’ve the right of that: we’ve too many to feed but not enough to fight and work.”

The wars had taken a devastating toll on Westeros, not least of all in the North which had borne the losses of the invasion of the Ironborn, the sack of Winterfell and fighting between Lord Stannis Baratheon and the combined forces of Houses Bolton and Frey, all before the Others descended on them in the coldest, darkest winter in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Many lives had been lost and the land was ravaged by fighting, foraging and neglect when crofters had died or fled. Eventually starvation had been the only thing that flourished when meager stores were exhausted and naught could be yielded from their lands of endless snow and unburied corpses but what little could be hunted from the forests.

The loss of able men was particularly devastating since soldiers were still needed to keep the peace and to prevent looting and fights over lands, materials or food, and craftsmen were needed to rebuild and make repairs and for everyday needs such a blacksmiths for forging steel arms and horseshoes, kennel masters for keeping hunting dogs, wagon and sledge makers and wheelwrights, tanners, drovers, masons, carpenters: the list of tasks necessary for them to maintain life in the near-destroyed North was endless.

In this matter the Wildings from beyond the Wall had proven invaluable: they were accustomed to privation and hard work and were singularly adaptable to life in the North. Even the women had skills with arms and animals and tools that were so badly needed and Sansa, who sat the high seat of Winterfell until her young brother Rickon reached his majority as Lord Stark, had seen to it that many who were amenable to swearing fealty were rewarded with positions in the castle or homes in the abandoned winter town and other castle villages, and land to till come the spring. Most Wildings had chosen to settle in the Gift but those who had fought and travelled further south were offered reason to stay.

“Born a Snow was he: no family then?” Sandor rasped.

“Aye, m’lord, the smith was his goodfather, and his woman’s just had a boy.”

“She was his _wife_ , soldier,” Sandor corrected him. “You will remember to show respect to the people we protect; or try to protect,” he added regretfully, “regardless of birth.” Sandor had no reservations about bastardy himself and again the losses wrought by the wars had made able young men of what was once deemed low birth more attractive to tradesmen and, seemingly, to their daughters. _Good for him_ , thought Sandor, _I’m not the only one who rose and wed above himself._ He then damned his own idiocy for congratulating a dead man.

A soldier was approaching them now with a low sledge piled with folded burlap, generally used to move feed and tools through the yards of Winterfell.

“Very well, move him but remember this man was one of us, not an enemy or a carcass. You will treat him as such; and no one is to breathe a word of this until we are able to speak with his family. I won’t have his widow learning of it from folks shouting in the road,” Sandor ordered. “You,” he called to the soldier who had retched, “you help them; best get used to this if you want to be a soldier, lad.”

“I’m sorry, m’lord,” he mumbled miserably,

Sandor saw how young he was but stood his ground firmly; he needed to be tough with them if they were going to toughen up themselves and survive.

The Blackfish walked up behind him as the men dragged the body away over the snow.

“Shall I speak with the man’s family?” he asked.

It would have been easy to accept the man’s offer; Sandor knew he was still regarded with fear and suspicion while the Blackfish, though also not a Northman, was mostly respected as their former lady’s uncle and advisor to the young King in the North. But Sandor was commander of the garrison and the garrison patrolled the winter town and so the responsibility fell to him.

“No,” he answered resolutely. “I’ll do it.”

…….

He waited until almost daybreak, knowing the smith would start his day early. Sandor knocked on the wooden door and waited. He could hear a baby crying inside. He door finally opened with a hard yank.

“’bout time ye-“ the burly smith answered and stopped, his eyes widening as he looked up to see Sandor before him. He dropped them just as suddenly. “M’lord, how-“

“Forgive me,” Sandor interrupted gruffly, “but I needs speak with your daughter…about her husband.”

…….

Sandor stood stiffly while the girl sobbed and shook her head.

“It’s my fault. If I had’na sent him out for help… but the babe had a fever-“ she sobbed again.

“We’ll send the maester for you,” he told her brusquely, “and anything else you need,” he offered.

“Can you send me another goodson who’s a smith, then?” the girl’s father commented sourly. “How’zit I’m supposed to get it all done?”

“I’ll ask about an apprentice for you; we’ve some boys training at Winterfell,” Sandor answered.

The man shook his head darkly. “This should’na happened,” he grumbled.

“No,” Sandor replied gruffly, “it shouldn’t have; unless you know some reason someone would do for him?”

“What ye sayin’ then?” the man asked defensively.

“Debts, grudges, fights: do you know why anyone would want him dead?”

The man’s eyes narrowed now. “Not all mens got troubles followin’em,” he sneered. “Flyn was a good man.”

 _And I’m not_ , Sandor concluded from the man’s look and words. He turned to the new widow now.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “We’re also short of men; but you have my word we’ll do all we can.”

“Thank’ye, m’lord,” she sniffled. Then she dropped her head in her hands and began crying again.

…….

 _An’ who’s he to question us with all he’s done wrong,_ the blacksmith would tell people who stopped into his forge. _The Hound hisself asking’ about other men’s sins, and murders even; and this bloody crime happened on his watch,_ he spat.

 _He brung’us back Lady Sansa, he did; and she married’im too,_ his daughter countered, red-eyed and sniffling as she worked the bellows.

_Oh aye, and her standin’ in the godswood as a maid when they wed and her already with a babe in ‘er belly then, they says. He forced hisself on our lady, I’ll wager ye and she had’ta marry or birth that black dog’s bastard…_


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa was carefully braiding her own hair over her shoulder when Sandor returned. She turned to greet him but the smile died on her lovely face when she saw that he looked strained and tired.

"Sandor? You were gone longer than you expected: is everything-" she began, concerned.

"He was from the winter town, little bird," he answered tiredly. 'I went to speak with his family."

She smiled sympathetically at him as he lowered himself onto the rustic bench that held the neatly folded piles of his only clothing; his other boots, a spare pair and therefore great luxury in Winterfell, were tucked beneath.

"That was good of you," she told him, "but I imagine it was difficult as well."

He grunted sullenly. "Difficult for them to hear," he rasped, "and to be questioned by a dog."

"Please, my love," she asked him softly, "do not call yourself that anymore. You are not a dog."

"And are you no longer a wolf then?" he countered gruffly though his mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile for her. "I'm not to the Hound to you anymore," he acknowledged, "but you may have to accept your commonfolk will never share your trust in me, little bird."

"My lords and their soldiers have accepted you Sandor; you have proven yourself time and again, as my shield, as commander and master at arms. They know your courage in battle and your loyalty to the North and the Stark family. But the commons have only this past year begun returning to the winter town since the wars have ended, and they are still wary of those who are not of the North-"

"A Westerman once loyal to the Lannisters," he sneered at himself. "Might be they want to bash  _my_  head in."

Sansa's brow furrowed in distress but she spoke firmly: "No. I have lost too much; I will not lose you, Sandor."

He looked at her as she rose now and walked towards him, momentarily mystified to remember that she was his wife.  _Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell._ Lady Clegane now. She was still beautiful, if not more so to him, still sweet and kind-hearted as she had been when he had known her as a girl, though she was no longer an innocent or sheltered from the real world and all its miseries. He wished he could reassure her but he had reason to be tough and uncompromising with his soldiers and his wife was fighting the same battles as they were. Though she had grown stronger during her years in hiding and the harsh years of the wars, Sandor knew his little bird was still gentle at heart.

"You know we are not out of the woods yet, little bird; it is still winter, and some won't see the spring."  _Might be I'm one of them._ He reached for her hand and held it in his large one. "And some of these Northmen, Sansa, will never accept me: not as commander, not as a lord, and certainly not as your husband." He let go of her hand and leaned his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes.

….

Despite her gentle prompting that he should get some sleep, Sandor insisted on going straight to the yard for training with the garrison. She was touched that he took his responsibility to Winterfell seriously but was concerned that he would wear himself out. Sometimes, she felt that he had been running since the night of the Battle of the Blackwater when he had deserted the Lannister forces and drunkenly offered to take her with him. He had then wandered the Riverlands as a deserter and fugitive and only stopped running once he had been near-fatally wounded by his brother's men and then left for dead by her younger sister, whom he had been carting about as a hostage without hope of a ransom. He would have died had he not been saved and taken in by the monastery on the Quiet Isle. She wondered sometimes if she had not done the worst thing by taking him away from that quiet reflective life, the one that had finally gentled his once endless rage, the savage anger that had frightened her so much as a girl, more so than his great size and even the fearsome burn scars that covered one side of his face: a horrifying punishment inflicted by his older brother when he had been a mere boy.

Instead he had travelled with her to help reclaim Winterfell and the North from those houses that had betrayed her family for their own gain: the Boltons and Freys; and then fought in the war against the Others from beyond the Wall.

She shuddered to remember those horrible cold, undead creatures, and then shuddered again from the cold air and pulled her cloak tightly around her in the sledge pulled behind a pair of horses over the snow-packed ground of the winter town. She had left Rickon with the trusted wildling woman called Osha, and was accompanying the maester who was to inquire into the health of the newly widowed girl and her babe, as Sandor had promised.

At the home of the blacksmith, Sansa found a sad young woman, only a little older than herself, with dark hair and eyes she thought might be grey or brown, though it was difficult to be certain when they were so very red and puffy from crying. She said her name was Rose. As the maester examined her child, Sansa expressed her condolences.

"It was a terrible thing that happened; we are all so very sorry for your loss," she placed her hand gently on the girl's shoulder.

The girl sighed quaveringly. "I- I thank ye, m'lady. You're good to come."

"Everyone says that your husband was a good man," Sansa told her. "I am sorry I did not know him. I have tried to meet many of the people here, as my father did, but we have been much occupied: there is so much work to be done." She looked over as the baby coughed and gurgled. "He is a sweet boy. It is my hope to make a good life for everyone here, especially the children. We have a daughter of our own," she smiled kindly.

"Y-yes, m'lady: the Lady Catya," she answered tentatively.

Sansa was touched by the girl's gentle courtesy and sensed a fleeting kinship from a story her father, Lord Eddard Stark once told her.

"Rose: that's a very pretty name. We used to have blue roses in the glass garden at Winterfell, and I remember I thought they were so beautiful that wished that my name was Rose. But my father told me there was a little girl in the winter town named Rose who did not have so much as we had, and so I must leave the girl her own name and be content to keep mine. My next name day he brought me a doll and I secretly named her Rose." She grew somber now. "I am sorry this is the first time we should meet Rose, but if there is aught that we can do to help you, I hope you will tell us."

Rose hesitated. "L-lord Clegane, m'lady, said he would ask after an apprentice for my father…"

The maester spoke now: "He has and I believe there may be a suitable boy we can send you. Your father must approve him of course and agree to provide for him."

"Oh…" she replied uncertainly.

"Will that not help?" Sansa inquired when she saw her response.

"I-it will help my father's work, m'lady; but we are so crowded here and now with a baby," she sniffled. "Flyn- my husband, m'lady, hoped to build on the back 'o my father's home someday so we would have more room."

Sansa hesitated momentarily and then put her hand on the girl's shoulder again.

"If I may, Rose, there is a place for you in Winterfell if you should wish to join us. We have a nursery where some of the older women watch over the babes, and we are hoping to give the small children lessons to learn their letters and numbers before they begin their apprenticeships. We do not have coin to offer but there would be a room for you and food to eat, though we are on rations, and you will be safe there: my lord does not tolerate mistreatment of women and, of course, nor do I."

"But…what work'd I do, m'lady? I never served in a castle."

"Most do all manner of work, Rose, we are few and the tasks are many. There is kitchen work, and cleaning and there is spinning and weaving and sewing, and serving in the great hall. Some women mind the animals, feeding chickens and gathering eggs, or milking the cows; I have had better luck with chickens than cows," Sansa admitted.

Rose was dumbfounded. "You tend animals, m'lady?"

Sansa gave a soft self-deprecating laugh. "I scatter feed and gather eggs in the mornings; but I must spend most of my day in the hall, and consulting with my advisors, or acting as castellan when necessary. I have proven to be less than helpful at some tasks, I fear, as most are new to me. My needlework is quite good, if I may say so, though we have no need for fancy embroidery and great need for warm clothing. I have only spilled a few times when serving at table but I do insist on doing my share even if some have to brush dirt from the floor off their meat or bread. They like to tease me that the dogs in the hall never go hungry when I serve."

She raised her chin and stood straighter now as she explained: "We all help and teach each other, and we all learn and do as much as we can. We must trust and count on each other if we are all to live together and survive. I am determined that the North shall be strong again, as it was- as it was in my lord father's day."

"Yes, m'lady," Rose agreed dutifully.

Sansa softened her speech now: "Please know that I understand what it is to lose someone you love, someone that you never thought you would lose so young; and therefore it is perfectly understandable if you would choose to be with your family at this time Rose. But if there should come a time when you would join us at Winterfell, please know that you and your son will be welcomed, and needed."

….

 _Tol' Rose herself that her lord don't tolerate no wimmen mistreated, ye can't be sayin' our Lady o'Winterfell'd be lyin'_ , the innkeeper's wife reported with satisfaction.

 _Then howzit he has herself doing work alongside the help,_ the blacksmith countered,  _imagine a Stark o'Winterfell feedin' the hens and tuggin' on cows' teats. He's brought our lady low, he has, by day_ and _night._

The one-eyed cooper slammed his tankard of ale down hard on the table.  _The Lady o' Winterfell's willin' to do same wut she asks o' of us all, and so's her lord. I fought alongside the man 'gainst many a foe an' I'll be hearing'naught against'im. By the old gods, he's all in for the North, and for our lady; strike me dead if he's not._

* * *

_Thanks to Littlefeather for her advice on fixing formatting. Hopefully we are a go to posting here from now on. Whee!_


	3. Chapter 3

"'Morning m'lord," the soldier in charge of the previous night's patrol reported to Sandor in the armoury before training began.

"Anything to report?" Sandor asked gruffly.

"No, m'lord. All was quiet-like. Only th'apprentice at the smith's having his first ale."

"No drunks, no fights, no thefts and no strangers: still nothing to help us with this murder after three days?"

"Nothing, m'lord," he replied bitterly.

Sandor looked at him more closely.

"Was the young man a friend of yours, soldier?" Sandor asked gruffly.

"I knew him, m'lord: talked over ales a'couple times: he was happy to have a family, made me happy for him," he paused, "because I'm also born a Snow, and it made me think…"

"Made you think, soldier?" Sandor prompted.

The young man gulped. "Made me think I'd like a family too…someday, m'lord."

Sandor's mouth twitched. "Aye," he rasped, "that is something to think of; of course when your 'someday' comes soldier, there will be a place for your family here."

"Thank you, m'lord," the soldier twitched his own ghost of a smile in return.

Sandor turned the sword he had been honing in his hand.

"Go join the ranks for training, soldier."

While the garrison was practicing their sparring, a soldier from the current patrol came galloping through the gates into the yard and though he reined hard, many of the soldiers had to scatter. Sandor called a halt to training and turned on the man with ferocity.

"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

The soldier's breath heaved and fogged in the crisply cold morning air.

"You needs come quick, m'lord," he panted, "we've another death, this time in the village."

Stranger's hooves kicked up snow as he galloped towards the crowd that had gathered outside the cooper's workshop and home. His horse whinnied just before Sandor reined him sharply and then he swung his leg over the powerful dark courser before dropping to the ground. Another soldier stuck his head out the door when he heard the horses arrive.

"In here, m'lord," he said somberly.

"Is the cooper kill't too now?" a woman called.

Sandor passed without answering and entered the dim workshop. The innkeeper was sitting inside, looking wide-eyed and as lost as a child. When he saw Sandor he rose and spoke to him.

"It weren't me, m'lord: I swears it truly; I only come to get the barrels he promised me'd be ready, only he didn't answer when I knocked or called-"

"Where is he?" Sandor barked gruffly.

"Inna  _barrel_ , m'lord," he man answered. "I leaned against it and felt it was heavy; the top weren't nailed down and so's I looked inside-"

He stopped speaking when he saw Sandor's heavy brow furrow and his face darken with anger. Sandor swung around to the soldier who indicated the barrel next to him.

"Throat's cut, m'lord. No one'd found him if he hadn't looked."

Sandor looked.

"He's in head first," he remarked.

"Aye, m'lord: we looked close enough to see he was dead then sent for you straight away. We thought you'd want to see how he was done for," he said almost apologetically, then lowered his voice. "He's cut so deep his head's half off, m'lord."

"You were right to leave him but pull him out now," he ordered, "carefully," he added.

When he saw the man, he caught his breath sharply as he recognized the one-eyed villager who had fought with them against the Others. Despite having little training, he had proven himself brave and resourceful and Sandor had hoped that he would stay with the garrison at Winterfell but the man had told him that he had fought so that he could have his old life back and live peacefully. Sandor had wished him luck and had meant it. Instead, the man had been slashed like a hog and stuffed in one of his own barrels. Now he felt bile and rage rise in him and struggled to control his anger as he looked upon the dead man.

_Look upon them brother, sometimes the dead have much to tell us,_ the Elder Brother had advised knowingly.

_I'm not your damned brother,_ he had answered.

_No, you're a butcher, you say, and they're all meat. Well, your task will be to dress the meat brother: strip them, wash them, shroud them and then bury them._

_Am I not haunted by enough dead?_

_What haunts you is not your dead, brother. But your indifference troubles me. Look upon them, and see them for what they were: people, not meat._

Sandor saw the deep gouge to his neck and jagged slash across his throat. The blood had run down his face and pooled in the bottom of the barrel and soaked his hair. A cut that deep should have sprayed blood but there was none on the workshop benches or the dirt floor. He leaned over and peered into the barrel again.

"Someone held his head in and slashed him: there's blood running down the inside from near the top. Then he turned him over inside."

"May th'old gods damn him," the innkeeper muttered.

Sandor and the other soldiers turned to look at him.

"Him that done this, m'lord; not the cooper hisself," he specified quickly.

"Would anyone else here have damned the cooper?" Sandor rasped.

The innkeeper hesitated. "Well, he was the first one back in th'village, m'lord; there's some thought he looted their homes cause they founds'em empty, but I'ze seen he gots no more than others."

Sandor shook his head. "The bloody Boltons looted the village we think, only sparse furnishings were found in Winterfell when my lady returned, except those used by the bastard himself; a lot were burned to fuel fires as were some of the timbers from homes here. We made certain to burn all of his wretched things; my lady insisted on it."

"M'lady Stark musta been sore heartbroken ta see the'castle in ruins, m'lord-" His eyes widened suddenly. "Gods, forgive me: Lady  _Clegane_ , m'lord, she musta been right grieved."

Sandor nodded. "That she was, but content to be home again and eager to rebuild."

The innkeeper wrung his hands. "She'd make 'er father proud, she would: she's a fine lady, our lady a'Winterfell."

"Aye," Sandor rasped, "that she is."

The innkeeper blinked rapidly. "He-he had words with th'blacksmith in my inn las'night," he began again, indicating the cooper who was being laid out and covered.

"Words? What kind of words?"

"Harsh words, m'lord, about…well, beggin' yer pardon, about you, mlord: the blacksmith, and some others, don't like your questionin'em about his goodson because…well, because-"

"Because I'm not one of you but a Westerman, and because I was the Hound, the Lannister's dog?" Sandor listed the reasons in his harsh rasp. "Or might be because I draped their lady in my cloak and share her bed?" A menacing smile spread across his scarred face and the innkeeper cowered somewhat but he looked Sandor bravely in the eyes and replied:

"A-all of 'em reasons, m'lord." He gulped when he was done.

Sandor brought a strong, gauntleted hand down on the man's shoulder.

"I thank you for that," he almost chuckled, "I hate a liar."

…..

When Sandor returned to Winterfell, he asked for a meal to be brought to him in the solar. He thought to ask for strong drink as well but refrained: he wanted a clear head to think. He thought Sansa would be in the hall or the kitchens or larder and so was surprised to find her in the solar with Rickon and their daughter Catya. He hesitated when he saw them and hung back in the doorway, thinking he would instead go back to the hall but he was drawn to the sounds of Sansa's happiness and her gentle cooing to their child.

"Brother!" Rickon jumped up and ran to him eagerly. "Will we train this afternoon? They said there's trouble in the winter town. May I help? I'm to be lord one day," he said seriously. His direwolf, Shaggydog, raised his head and watched Sandor, as though hanging on his answer.

Sandor put his hand on the boy's shoulder and answered him with equal seriousness. Shaggydog put his head back down on his tremendous paws.

"A man was killed, little brother; there's naught you can do but mind yourself and train hard. But you can come with me when he's buried: he fought for the Starks and for the North and so we will honor him."

"Who was he?" Sansa asked softly.

"The cooper," Sandor rasped and made a quick motion over his eye like a slash to indicate the man was missing an eye.

"Oh," Sansa breathed, "I'm sorry, Sandor; I know you liked him. I remember him, from when I was younger…" she drifted off thoughtfully.

"And did he frighten you, little bird: him with his missing eye?" he questioned, a little sharply.

She looked away and nodded; then she looked back to him. "I wish I had not been but I did not know better then," she confessed with a voice full of regret and Sandor knew she was also speaking of him.

"I know, little bird," he told her in a softer rasp. He looked down now at his daughter who was gurgling and humming loudly and trying to push away from Sansa. She smiled gushingly at Sandor and pointed her stubby little finger at him.

"Do you want to see your Papa?" Sansa asked her as her baby girl giggled and squealed. "Off you go, then."

Sandor stood uncertainly as Catya crossed the floor towards him on her hands and knees, finally stopping and grabbing his boot as she smiled up at him with a little face full of delight. He stared down at her with a stern fascination. Odd that the little mite seemed to like him so much, he puzzled; he was used to children crying at the sight of his face. And then there were those wide, clear grey eyes: grey like his own, so like-

"She was trying to walk before, brother," Rickon told him excitedly, "but she kept falling on her  _arse_."

Sansa gasped softly at what she considered Rickon's coarse language but the boy was spending more time with the rougher men of the garrison and forge and stables than with his refined sister and the castle's maester. As to Sandor's daughter, sure enough Catya gripped his boot and hauled herself to her feet, hugging his leg tightly. He resisted the urge to shake her off as one would throw off a stray dog in heat that would hump your leg.

Looking back to Sansa, he saw her concerned expression; and though he hoped it was for the dead man, Sandor suspected he was not behaving as she wished with their pup. Sandor did not know how to show affection for a child, and though he loved it because it was hers, her child with him, he was haunted by another little grey-eyed girl whom he had not been able to protect. Now with winter still holding its grip on the North and a murderer in the winter town, Sandor feared that he may not be able to protect his wife or their little girl.

_Seven hells, when I was the Hound, I feared nothing._

He'd also had nothing. He gazed at Sansa now, and she smiled tenderly back at him.

_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._

He had sworn to protect her and he would keep his word: he would kill and die for them. He looked down on his little girl now and bent to pat her head awkwardly. He was rewarded with the feel of fine silky dark hair and yet another heartbreaking grin.

….

_Hisslef showin' up for the burial with the lit'l lord and his great beast in tow: thinks he's one of us now?_ The baker sneered over his tankard of ale.

_Coop hisself said they fought together, might be they were friendly like-_

_A stray dog's got no friends: he's a deserter, a turncloak._

_He deserted that bastard boy-king, and turned his back on th'Lannisters: good on 'im for that, I says,_ the innkeeper opinioned as he wiped down the ale spilled by the baker.

_Once a turncloak, always a turncloak: they thinks only of theyselves…like our lord dog._ Despite his unsteady slurring, the baker looked menacing as he raised his ale again.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa carefully placed the last branch of wood from the basket onto the fire in the hearth of their chamber and wiped her hands on a linen towel by her basin of water. She had a small table near to what was her side of their bed, and it held the basin, a candle and her hairbrush and a small carved bowl in which she kept her few valuables. Now she carefully unclasped the necklace that had been her wedding gift from Sandor: a chain with the heads of both a direwolf and dog wrought by a gold and silversmith in White Harbor. He had brought it back from one of his campaigns and she suspected that he had traded good quality captured arms for it, arms that were needed in the North; but she could not have brought herself to refuse it, not when she had seen the uncertainty in his eyes when he offered it to her. Her husband may have scorned knights and lords and riches but he also knew she had been raised a high-born lady and had loved beautiful things and he wanted very much to make her happy. Though she longed more for warm clothes and blankets in these past years, nothing could have made her happier than being given a gift, any gift, from him; and the design combining the animals of their house sigils had touched and delighted her beyond words. So she had showed him her gratitude instead, despite being several moons with child at the time, and loved him in ways she had only heard about.

Sansa remembered a time when she would never have heard of such things, and then remembered a time when other women had talked freely to her, when they had thought her a low-born bastard girl; and she had learned a great deal about men and love, much more than she, and certainly Septa Mordane, would have once thought proper. She shook her head now. She preferred not to dwell on the past, for good or ill, as nothing could change any of it nor bring back those lost to her and so she resolved to think about her life now instead.

She turned to her bed, her's and Sandor's, and pulled back the furs and climbed in. The headboard was low and made from rough boards but at least she did not have to lean back against the cold stone wall, as bare of hangings as the floors were of carpets. She could even see the discolored squares where tapestries had hung or lain for years and felt a sharp pang: even after losing half her family, these small everyday reminders of the devastation that had befallen the Starks and Winterfell haunted her, try though she might to push them from her mind. All the great carved furnishings, all the familiar belongings that had been in her family for countless generations, everything she had once taken for granted: these were gone forever. She hugged her arms tightly to her body.

"Are you cold, little bird?" Sandor rasped as he walked in from their dressing room. He still had the towel from his washing-up around his neck; otherwise he was as naked as his name day.

She smiled at him though her eyes were taking in all of his tall, heavily muscled body.  _Gods, he is magnificent._  She sometimes still blushed to think of what effects his body had on her own.

"Just a passing chill, my love: I have put the last of our ration on the fire." She held out her hand to him now. "Come warm me," she said softly.

Sandor's mouth twitched and he dropped his towel on the floor, then he heard Sansa's breath catch. He growled slightly and bent to pick it up now.

"It will still be cold and damp come morning if you leave it there, Sandor; drape it by the fire instead."

After leaving the towel hanging from the edge of the mantle, he turned back to her and slowly, deliberately crawled over her to his side of the bed. Sansa giggled.

"I've been gently trampled by a naked aurochs," she teased him.

"Have you ever seen a clothed aurochs, little bird?" he countered dryly. He lay on his side next to her now and cupped her chin in his strong fingers. "Hm," he considered her, "how are you feeling?" he rasped low.

She smiled secretly. "It feels different this time," she almost whispered.

His brow furrowed. "Different how, little bird?"

"Less sickness," she explained, or tried to, "just…easier somehow. Mayhaps it is because it is not all new to me this time but it is said-, it is said that boys rest easier in the womb than girls, Sandor." She smiled tremulously now. "I think that I may be carrying a son."

Sandor looked at her: her soft voice, her eyes, her entire face was filled with expectant joy; a joy she wished to share with him. His eyes dropped to her middle instead and he moved his hand down to her belly and rested it there, on top of the furs.

"My love? Are you happy?" she whispered hopefully.

He looked back to her now. "I'll be happy no matter what we might have, little bird; so long as both of you are well…and safe." He rolled away from her now and stared grimly at the ceiling where black streaks caused by the smoke and flames of the fire that nearly destroyed Winterfell still marred the dark stones and timbers.

Sansa hesitated before speaking again. "You were good to take Rickon to the cooper's burial, Sandor; I would have gone with you but there is much to be done in the larders and kitchen and the wildling women seem to listen better to me than even the maester."

Sandor grunted. "They think well of you little bird: 'kissed by fire' they call those with red hair; they seem to think it's good luck. They should try being kissed by fire for real," he grumbled, "and see how lucky they think it is then."

"And they think you fierce and strong and brave, Sandor: they believe that scars and burns are a badge of honour and they respect that."

Sansa reached to caress his scarred face, remembering how badly he had frightened her as a girl and how she had thought him ugly. His face was horrific: cracked and blackened with red sores and missing one ear and half his hair on one side, but it had been his eyes, so full of hate and rage that had scared her most. Now when she looked at his scars, she only saw the terrible pain he had suffered and the loneliness he had endured from being shunned and feared. If only she had known, she may have trusted him sooner and- But there was no point in dwelling on regrets; Sandor had no more been prepared to have her in his life and heart when they had first known each other than she had been to have him in hers. She sighed.

"I know you liked the man, Sandor, and it must be hard to know he died so senselessly, like the young smith," she sympathized. "Since I am acting warden of the North, I feel responsible for these people: the villagers in the winter town knew and were known to my father and so were as loyal as his bannermen, and I am failing them…"

"It's not you they think is failing them, little bird; it's me," he rasped bitterly, "and they'd be right: I have command of the garrison and am charged to keep the peace but don't know who this person is or where they've come from or even why they're killing. There's no sense to it: no theft, no grudges, nothing to be gained from killing but just killing."

"But would someone do such a thing, Sandor: kill for its own sake?" Sansa was at a loss.

Sandor looked at her darkly: "Gregor would, and Joffrey, though he'd have someone do it for him, and that Bolton's bastard: the world is full of cruel killers, little bird."

"I know, Sandor," she told him wearily, "but now that the wars are over and the young dragon queen sits the Iron throne and we have sworn fealty…I thought we were starting a new life, and new lives," she slipped her hand over her belly now. "Oh, Sandor, I had just hoped that we were done with death."

Sandor turned back to her now, cupping her chin again and then sliding his hand down underneath the furs until he reached her belly again. "I'm done with it for today," he rasped. Slowly he tugged at her night dress until he had raised it to her waist and placed his warm, rough hand on her bare skin and caressed her tenderly. He brought his face close to hers and nudged gently at her ear and her neck.

"Seven hells, you're beautiful," he breathed now, "you're the most beautiful mother," he told her his rough voice, tight with emotion. "When I watch you with our babe, you- you seem a goddess come to life: everything gentle and good."

Sansa stretched to kiss him, softly at first and then hungrily when she felt his hand still on her belly and reach tentatively down towards her mound. She slipped her tongue into his mouth just as he slipped his fingers into her warmth and gave a contented hum.

Sandor sat up and moved to kneel between her legs, bringing her knees up and gently tracing the outline of her folds with his fingertips while rubbing the sensitive knot of flesh just above with his thumb. Sansa began to wriggle and writhe, and she panted as she took the hem of her bedgown and pushed it up over her breasts and shoulders and finally pulled it over her head.

"Gods, my love," she breathed. She could see his hard member standing erect against his abdomen and keened yearningly. She knew how hard and strong he could get and how it would feel inside her. She wanted him inside her and so reached to touch him.

Suddenly Sandor bent over her and gathered her in his arms. "Fucking hells, you're ready, girl. Come here," he rasped. He lifted her and clutched her to him as he sat back on his heels again so that she gripped his shoulders and looked into his eyes, now hooded with desire and a deep stormy grey. With one arm wrapped tightly around her waist and the other slung under her bottom, he positioned her so that the head of his cock was poised right at her entrance and he slowly lowered her into him so that she shivered and gasped. He stopped and held her there, listening to her pant and watching her wide blue eyes darken and her lids become heavy. Finally she whimpered in frustration and so he pulled her down to sheath his whole cock with her wet warmth. As he raised and lowered her on his hard length, Sansa kissed and bit his lips before wrapping her longs legs tightly around his waist and letting her head fall back with her long auburn hair swirling around her shoulders.

"Oh, it's so  _good_ , Sandor. Isn't it good?" she whispered to him.

He hissed through clenched teeth as he watched her face and body flush from pleasure.

"It's the sweetest thing there is, little bird," he rasped.

….

 _Whut were ye doin' talkin' to that Riverlands' Blackfish? He's no' one of us._ The baker had returned from the inn drunker than usual.

 _He's patrolling wit' the garrison_ , his wife answered shakily, _they was askin' if we had sound bars'n'locks on th'doors, else they'd send us a carpenter from th'castle._

_I don' want'ye talking wit'im..nors any other man, d'ye hear me, woman? Don't test me: ye knows what ye'll get!_

_The cooper was kill't in his own shop; they only wants us to be safe,_  the baker's wife tried to reason. She should have known better; there was never any reasoning with the man, especially when drunk.

_An ye' thinks ye knows better'n me what's happenin' here, woman? I can sees it's all the work'a that burned dog our lady calls a lord. All you womens is useless cunts!_

His hand came up to strike her so hard and fast that she never had time to flinch. Then the floor rushed up to meet her again.


	5. Chapter 5

As Sandor's large hands awkwardly helped to lace Sansa into her wool gown, there was a knock at their chamber door. They looked at each other with foreboding and Sandor went to open it.

"Mornin' m'lord," the woman before him said respectfully, though with a slight smirk. Squirrel was a wildling spearwife and she had stayed on at Winterfell after the wars, saying that she liked the castle despite what she termed its ghosts and laughing that she had created some of them herself during the Bolton's occupation of the castle. She had accompanied Mance Rayder when he had gained entrance to Ramsay Bolton's wedding feast masquerading as a singer travelling with his mother, wife and daughters, when in truth he had been sent from the Wall by Jon to rescue the girl he thought was Arya. Though the girl sent to wed Bolton's bastard was actually Sansa's friend Jeyne Poole, the wildlings had conspired to free her from the castle and had killed some Bolton and Frey men for good measure. Having lived most of her life beyond the Wall, Squirrel had known about Winterfell from the legends and songs of the Free Folks' King-Beyond-the-Wall Bael the Bard who, also in the guise of a travelling singer, came to the castle hundreds of years earlier and seduced the then Stark lord's only daughter, fathering the next Lord Stark. Squirrel liked to sing the songs and to remind the other Northerners that their liege lord and lady of Winterfell had wildling blood.

In their early days back in the North, Squirrel had also set her sights on Sandor, whose great size and vicious scars were considered highly appealing to wildling women who respected fierceness and strength above all qualities. She had made many attempts to seduce him, even waiting for him naked in his bed. He had been hard-pressed to keep finding reasons to keep her away since he and Sansa were lovers; though he insited on keeping the fact secret from everyone in the castle. He did not doubt that the revelation would get him killed and see Sansa disrespected by her lords or worse. After all, they still had their young lord Rickon to rally around for the North.

Finally it was Osha who told Sansa of Squirrel's behavior, under the benign pretense that Sandor could hardly be an effective sworn shield to Sansa if he were distracted by a naked wildling waiting for him around corners. Sansa in turn confronted an embarrassed Sandor and when he sheepishly confessed his predicament, she had nodded thoughtfully and told him that she would deal with the matter herself. Afterward, the wildling woman's aggressive attentions ceased, leaving Sandor curious as to what Sansa had said or done. When he questioned her, Sansa merely smiled gently and told him not to trouble himself anymore. What he never knew was that Sansa had waited until Squirrel was alone in the larder, then walked straight up to her and had grabbed her by her mousy brown hair before holding the dagger Sandor had gifted her to the wildling woman's throat.

"You like to say we Starks have wildling blood, well, here is your proof: if you try to have my man again I will cut open your throat and reach in to pull out your heart and eat it before you like a direwolf starved for meat. Do you understand?"

Squirrel had nodded frantically, wide-eyed and shocked beyond words at her kneeler-lady's sudden strong ferocity.

"Good," Sansa released her and spoke in her usual soft tones, "respect me and keep our secret and you will be welcome to stay on at Winterfell. Disrespect me and betray us, and I swear to you that you will die at my hand. It is my hope you will choose to stay, as we are grateful for your knowledge and hard work, Squirrel."

Sansa had sheathed her dagger and turned her back on her and, with her heart racing and flushed with excitement and a primitive kind of  _power_ , she had walked away to find Sandor in the stables and there had pulled up her skirts so that he could take her against the back wall of Stranger's stall. Had she confided in him, he would have told her that she was taken with the bloodlust.

Now Sansa walked to the door of her chamber to speak with Squirrel who nodded respectfully.

"Mornin' m'lady: there's a girl with her babe at the gates says you asked her to come. Says 'er name's Rose, m'lady."

Sansa brightened. "Yes, I did. Please have her let into the great hall, Squirrel, and see that she is fed. Thank you."

"What's this?" Sandor asked. "Another mouth to feed?"

"She is the young smith's widow with her child. There is not room enough for them all now we've sent her father an apprentice, Sandor; and…she's bound to be lonely with her husband gone and there are more people here at Winterfell than in the winter town. Please, Sandor, I feel I must do something to help her."

Sandor shook his head mildly. "You don't need my leave, little bird: you're the Lady of Winterfell," he rasped; then he cupped her cheek and brushed his calloused thumb over her lips, "and you're kind-hearted."

"You once said I was stupid," she teased.

"You once said I was awful," he parried.

Now she cupped his scarred cheek. "You're honest," she whispered, "it's the world that's awful…sometimes. Oh, Sandor: we have to find this person and stop them."

He took her hand from his cheek and squeezed it in his. "We will, little bird; we haven't come this far too lose to a ghost."

….

Ser Brynden the Blackfish entered the baker's shop with a carpenter from Winterfell. The baker turned to him, wiping his hands on a stained apron and barely suppressed a teeth-baring sneer.

"Help ye… _Ser_?"

"We've come to help you, if you should need it," the Blackfish replied smoothly. "I spoke with your wife yesterday about your bars for the doors here, and she advised that I return and speak with you."

"Did she fer a fact?" The baker looked him over insolently. "Yer not frum here."

The Blackfish cocked one eyebrow. "I'm a Tully of Riverrun, uncle to the late Lady Stark, great-uncle to the current lord, young Rickon Stark, and the Lady of Winterfell-"

"Aye, Lady  _Clegane_  she be; another man who'd not be frum here. We don't need yer help; yer southron ideas is what gots us all in this: Lord Stark leavin' with his daughters to make southron marriages then Lord Robb leavin' ta make war with th' lions. They shoulda stayed and looked after their own, they shoulda; nothin' good came o' the south and now Winterfell be fulla lords and sers and iffen that weren't bad enough yous got yer wildlings from beyond the Wall."

"The wildlings fought for the North, and are part of the North now. You must realize that whoever is killing people is possibly from here or else someone would have noticed a stranger about," the Blackfish suggested to him, "we are just trying to protect-"

" _You couldna even pertect yer own_!" the baker roared. "King Robb struck down at a weddin', cut his head off and his direwolf's stuck to 'im. Was that protecting 'im, I asks? And Lady Stark was walkin' corpse, they says. And after all thats, they goes and bends their knees to th'Iron throne yit again. The Stark Kings s must be turnin' in their graves in that bloody crypt ta know how yous all've failed us, and yerselves," he spat. "Gwan and pertect yer own, iffen ye can; leaves us to look to ourselves. I kin watch my own womens better'n the likes of ye' and yer lord dog."

Brynden Tully glared darkly at the man but he had no retort to offer. He had been tormented by the failures and losses suffered by the Starks and Tullys so that he now refused to leave their side until he knew they would survive the winter and bring peace and life back to Winterfell and the North. But he could not refute what had passed; though he knew many of their enemies' victories had been won by the lowest treachery, the betrayal and deaths of his nephew Robb, the King in the North, and his niece Cat would haunt him to his grave. He inclined his head stiffly even as he clenched his fists.

"Very well. If you should change your mind or need help in the future, please apply for it in the great hall of Winterfell. Lady Clegane will insist that all those in the winter town are given what aid they need for their protection," he told the man in his smokey voice before turning to the carpenter. "Come along, there are more homes to see to," he advised him.

As he left the baker's shop, he was stilled by an instinct that called him to look back. From the second floor of the small wooden building, he saw the baker's wife, with whom he had spoken only the day before, looking out from behind a crack in the shutters of the icicle-covered window. She turned away suddenly when she saw him look up, but not quickly enough to hide the livid bruise on one side of her mouth. He wanted to go back inside and see her: she had been so timid and respectful with him, her eyes flitting away whenever they met his steady gaze. He had thought her fearful of the murderer, not her own husband. The Blackfish knew of such marriages of course, they were not rare, and a man had a right to chastise his own wife; but he also knew some men were weak and cruel and mean.

Let the man see to his own safety; with any luck, he would fail worse than they had so far. Only…he offered a prayer to the Mother and the Stranger: don't let the woman and her little girls come to harm.

….

There had been few petitioners in the great hall that afternoon, and Sansa had only had to consult with Sandor and the maester and Squirrel, who was supervising the kitchens, about the increased number of soldiers for the night patrols: they were to be fed slightly better rations but were forbidden to drink anything stronger than watered ale, and nothing while they were patrolling. The innkeeper would be told to turn away men on duty, and there were always enough off-duty soldiers in his tavern at night to ensure they kept to their orders.

Later Sansa was pleased to see Rose in the kitchens, looking somewhat bewildered by all the noise and activity in such a large place with so many people but also determinedly trying to learn and help. Squirrel had set her to filling pots of stew for the tables and slicing bread to the correct size for rationing.

"They gets one piece and that's all they gets," Squirrel admonished her, "if any gives you any lip or trouble, you tell'em to come and speaks with  _me_." The wildling woman had no use for complainers and told any man who challenged her how she had dispatched Freys and Boltons without anyone suspecting "…so's you won't see me coming if I decides to off you and gives us one less big mouth to feed, now begone and be thankful for what you gets."

"I'll be serving tonight as well," Sansa confided, "and you cannot do worse than me," she encouraged her.

"You should think of it as a dance, m'lady" Osha called out, "dancin' is what you do better'n anyone here."

When they entered the hall, Rose's appearance was met with appreciative looks and a few catcalls and whistles, until murmurings of 'the dead smith's wife' were heard along the tables. Rose kept her eyes downcast and worked diligently; and though Sansa hummed to herself to think of her duties as a dance, she still overturned a tray of dried pears that she had to take back to the kitchen to be rinsed of the grit and slush underfoot from soldiers' boots. Both Osha and Squirrel shook their heads in defeat.

"It's thankful I am there's no cinnamon or nutmeg to flavor them, m'lady; else that'd be on shorter rations than th'bread."

"Are you finding the work difficult, Rose?" Sansa had the chance to ask once they brought the last of the platters and bowls to the kitchen.

Rose hesitated a moment. "It's not the work but all the folks, m'lady; I can hear them talkin' and-"

"I see," Sansa replied understandingly; then she had a thought. "Rose, my lord husband is delayed in the mornings by having to help me dress…could you come to my chambers in the morning to assist me? It would help both of us very much."

"To your chamber, m'lady? To wait on you?" Rose sounded uncertain. "But I've never been a lady's maid-"

"Neither had my lord until we were married, and he is not so very bad though he is sorely needed with the garrison, as you know," Sansa finished softly.

"I-I would be pleased to help you, m'lady," Rose said dutifully.

Sansa put her hand on the girl's arm and smiled with gratitude. "Thank you, Rose."

…..

 _Bloody Blackfish had th'nerve to say t'was like to be one of us, and what's one o'us to gain frum killin' our own?_ The baker demanded from the room at the inn.

_Whozit then that's be doin' for us then: them wildlings?_

_Nay: the dog, the turncloak,_ he hissed sinisterly _._

_Why's that then: his lady's got charge of the whole North? I says it's them wildlin's wantin' what's our'n…._

_His lady's got charge, not 'im: turncloaks want for themselves, and murders be in the dog's blood. Din'ye hear tell of all them bodies found when they tried te plow a field near his fambly's old keep in the west?_

_That was the brother, man: that Mountain that kill't his own peoples; says they right hated each other so it's not to do with'im then._

_Then yer a fool. The brother killed his own Da ta get the keep and lands, to be lord; iffen folks start dyin' an' it's to be blamed on some ghost, who's to wonder when the lit'l lord gets kill't, then the lady herself. It'll be the dog hisself who rules fer his heir, and we'll all be food fer worms in the fields._

There flowed a rumble of mutterings, both in agreement and protest.

 _There'll be another dead 'fore too long, and they'll turn up nothin' agin but still looks ta blames us._ The baker listened to the reactions to his words, and nodded his head in satisfaction. There would be another, they'd see soon enough.


	6. Chapter 6

"Mayhaps if I went to speak with the man-" Sansa suggested, but her great-uncle shook his head regretfully.

"I've known men such as this before, Sansa: they're weak and scared and can only feel strong if they keep everything around them in their control, and they ensure their families are even more frightened than they are. I'm afraid there is nothing you can say to sway the baker to reason or gentleness," the Blackfish rested his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. He was her most trusted advisor, as he had been her brother Robb's, and he saw Sansa took her responsibilities as seriously as the young King in the North had. He was determined that she would not suffer the same fate however.

They were talking in the solar after the evening meal. Sandor had stayed to give instructions to those patrolling the winter town that night; twice as many soldiers as had been patrolling a fortnight previously. They sat on the edges of the great hearth, seeking its warmth and light in the cavernous room.

"But a woman beaten in her home, right outside our walls," she shook her head, "how can I allow that?"

"It's his right, child; right or wrong, it is his right," he told her firmly though he could not look her in the eye. He wondered if he would ever bring himself to look the baker's wife in the eye. Dark eyes, he remembered, skittish and sad, like a doe seeing a buck felled in the hunt.

Sansa set her jaw stubbornly. "I wonder what our Dragon Queen Daenarys would say to that, or Arya…" she said wistfully.

"Arya? She would not suffer him to see the sun rise again. You know what she became, child," he said gently.

"Yes, but I miss her, Great-uncle," Sansa replied. "Arya belongs in Winterfell."

The Blackfish sighed resignedly. "She's safer where she is, Sansa, with the queen in King's Landing. She was brave to go with her," he told her again for the hundredth time.

Sansa looked around the solar, finding it as dark and desolate of furnishings and mementos as her chamber and most other rooms in the castle. But there was a large makeshift desk for herself and the maester and two strong wooden chairs. She wished for a great armchair for Sandor, like one her father had sat in with his family around him. Now she had only Rickon from those happier days.

Because of their family's involvement in Robert's Rebellion and the overthrow of the Targaryen dynasty, Daenarys Stormborn had not been entirely convinced that she could trust the Starks, though they had sworn their fealty based on the legacy of Torrhen Stark. He had been the last King of the North until Robb broke with the Iron Throne over the imprisonment and execution of Eddard Stark. Torrhen had bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror knowing he could not withstand the threat of dragons and so Sansa and her remaining siblings had agreed that they would do the same, and for the same reason: the North could not survive another war, certainly not one fought with dragons. To placate the new queen and mayhaps put herself in a position to benefit her family, and to learn more about dragons, Arya had offered herself as a hostage to the young queen's court. Sansa had despaired and pleaded with her, knowing too well what it was to be a hostage to royalty; but Ser Barristan Selmy himself had sworn to her that her younger sister would be well treated according to her birth, and Arya had said it would be safer for all of them.

"They won't come here looking for me if I go to King's Landing, Sansa; I can't put you and Rickon at risk, not now that we have only just reclaimed Winterfell. Stay here and rebuild the North, and mayhaps I can come back one day."

Sansa knew who  _they_  were: Arya had joined the Faceless men, had become a trained assassin, a killer; and though Sansa should have been shocked and horrified she had instead been mostly saddened. She understood that Arya had thought herself alone in the world, and that she had wanted vengeance for her family. Now, she needed to fear that vengeance would someday come in turn for her as well. Arya had strayed so far from her life at Winterfell that it was not safe for her to return.

"Great-uncle Brynden, could they be behind the murders? The Faceless men, I mean, to get to Arya?" she wondered aloud.

"I wouldn't think that likely, child: she's not even here, and why kill innocents? The Faceless men kill for a price."

"Mayhaps they believe that if we were in trouble, that Arya would come back to us," she offered as a reason.

"What are you trying to do, child," he scoffed gently, "solve this mystery on your own? Sandor and I will find the man, I swear we will," he promised her now.

"But how?" Sansa puzzled. "Sandor says there is no sense to it; if that is true, we may have to consider this is meant to undermine us: Winterfell and the North, and the Starks," she pursed her lips in frustrated concentration. "But why, and by whom? We have not lacked for enemies these many years, Great-uncle," she lamented softly, "but I had thought they were all dead, or exiled."

"As did I, child," he replied simply in his smokey voice, his heavy grey brows furrowing together as he realized that she may be right.

"Queen Daenarys may wish to give the North to another family that supported her claim: she has made many promises to many supporters, even in the East. But she could not hope to remove us unless we proved ineffectual if not outright failures," Sansa suggested tentatively.

The Blackfish shook his head. "Not with Rickon still alive, she would have to first send a guardian or regent to rule for him until he reached his majority before giving up on the Stark line, and even then she would needs replace you with another Northern family and they have all proven themselves loyal to you and to Rickon."

"…and even to Sandor." She paused before raising her eyes to look at him again. "Tyrion," she put forth his name with a whisper.

"Sansa," he breathed, "that is a dangerous thought. He is Hand to the queen, and did not oppose your family being reinstated as rightful heirs to Winterfell or Wardens of the North; on the contrary, he seemed to want to restore what was lost to you. A Lannister always pays his debts," he recited.

"Yes," she acknowledged sharply, "but my former husband was not pleased to know that I had married Sandor, and in the sight of the old gods well before he had consented to our annulment. His pride and his desire to be loved has been his weakness before, Great-uncle: he wanted revenge against his own family for betraying and condemning him; how do I know he does not want his revenge on  _us_?" She straightened her spine. "Tyrion believed that I would rule as a Stark, or marry an old Northern ally of my father's; he never thought I would choose…that I could  _love_  Sandor-"

"Even if Tyrion did want undermine you and Sandor, child, he's Hand: he could use any manner of trumped up charge and the royal means to do so. He would want you to know it was him, Sansa. Tyrion is cunning but he wants his power acknowledged; he would not needs resort to petty subterfuge. Besides, had he sent someone here to cause trouble, the villagers would have known him for a stranger."

Sansa covered her face with her hands and took a quavering breath. "I am acting Warden of the North, Great-uncle: I must protect my people, my  _father_ 's people and one day Rickon's people." She looked at him with hollow eyes, haunted eyes: "I hate to feel so helpless," she whispered hoarsely, "please tell me what I must do."

"You must protect yourself, and Rickon; though I believe none could ever get near him with Shaggydog on his heels." The Blackfish laughed wryly, then grew somber. "If only they had trusted Grey Wind…" he trailed off sadly before turning aged and equally haunted Tully blue eyes to Sansa. "Never tie up that direwolf, Sansa: he's your brother's best shield."

"I know, Great-uncle Brynden," she replied.

"I'm sorry you haven't your direwolf, child: I would feel reassured it you did."

Now Sansa smiled sadly and then raised her eyebrows with wry humour. "When King Robert let Lady stand condemned, he told my father that I should have a dog instead…"

"And now you have one," the Blackfish smiled, referring to Sandor. "It may well have been the only wise thing Robert ever said."

….

Sandor had given his instructions to the night patrol and watch and now made his way between the tables and benches of bare boards and across the Great Hall to the some young men who were donning their cloaks to leave into the cold evening. He spotted the young man who said he had been friendly with the young smith.

"Snow," he called gruffly.

But then two young men looked up at once while a few others within earshot also turned around.

"M'lord?" they both answered.

Sandor stopped still and looked from one to the other. "Another Snow," he rasped. "Where do you all come from? No, wait," he held up his own hand with a rueful expression, "if you knew that, you wouldn't be Snows."

"Lord Eddard Stark himself placed me with a family of crofters, mlord," the young man he had spoken to previously told him. "Their own childrens were too young to help with the work yet." He swallowed and dropped his eyes. "I don't know what's happened to'em, m'lord. I went to the village for supplies one day and when I came back at nightfall they was just gone."

Sandor nodded. "Many people are just gone now, soldier: I hope you had a good family for a while at least."

"Aye, m'lord," he answered, "they was decent folk."

"Then you will be too when you have your own family: you've learned how," he rasped authoritatively, though he felt a fraud given that he could not even seem to care properly for his own daughter. Not that he had ever learned what a decent family was; not from his own people anyway. He looked to the other boy now. "Did you have anyone, Snow?"

"Yes, m'lord," he answered in a mournful tone even as his face hardened, "I lost'em all too."

"Well, you've a place here now and might be you'll feel things set to right in time. I value good men who are honest and work hard so birth don't matter to me: I've known good low-born men and terrible high-born ones, even knights and lords and kings," he rasped with a slight sneer at his memories. "Do your duty and you'll do well here, might be you'll even rise in time. Are you on patrol tonight or the watch?"

"On patrol, m'lord," the first Snow replied.

"Then we're in good hands," Sandor told them gruffly. "Be alert; I know it's hard when you're freezing your balls off."

"Yes, m'lord," they both answered with knowing grins, and the younger Snow nodded and turned away as men filed out into the night.

"What's your name, soldier?" Sandor asked the first man.

"Sn- I mean, Kit, m'lord," he smiled slightly.

"Kit," Sandor repeated, "keep safe out there."

Kit nodded grimly. "That we'll do; thank'ye, m'lord."

….

_Yes, that's it: die, you little whore._

He clenched his teeth with the effort as he squeezed harder and tighter and heard her last wheezing gasp of air and felt her body tense and then still. She had flailed and fought but he had triumphed as he knew he would and now she was just another wretched corpse like the other ones. Even in the cold, rivulets of sweat ran down inside his clothes and from his hair and stung his eyes and his cock had grown hard and ached for release. As he pulled himself away his hand brushed over her teat and lingered but no, he could not take the time, not this time. He stood with an expelled breath and hurried away in the dark of night.

He'd have the high and mighty Lady of Winterfell though; that much he had promised himself. He'd save her for the last and take her on all fours like the dog's bitch she was, ignoring her pleading and sobs as he grabbed fistfuls of her flaming hair and pumped into her and spilled hot seed inside her and all over her, just as he spilled all over himself whenever he imagined it. Then finally, finally he'd press her down onto her back and choke the very life out of her: he'd watch as her milky pale face turn dark and hear her breath rattle and stop and see those Tully-blue eyes widen and stare emptily up at the sky when he killed her slowly, slowly; yes, he'd rape her and strangle her and watch her die.


	7. Chapter 7

When someone had knocked at their chamber door the next morning, both Sansa and Sandor had felt a strong foreboding and stood looking into each other's eyes with defeat and despair before looking away.

"I would come with you this time, Sandor, please," she had implored once they were told of another murder.

He had hesitated momentarily before conceding. "But I won't have you ride, little bird, especially in the snow: come in the sledge with the maester."

This time the soldiers sent to fetch him reined their horses before the inn. Sandor dismounted and patted Stranger, who was tossing his head and blowing air in great puffs of fogged breath.

"Easy, boy: you've known death before this," Sandor rasped to him. "The innkeeper?" he asked gruffly of the soldier, the younger Snow from the previous night.

The boy shook his head. "The serving wench, m'lord; they said to bring you out back." He pointed through the inn's ground floor of tables and benches back towards the kitchen.

Outside again, he saw the innkeeper's wife wrapped in a heavy shawl, her eyes and face red and puffy from her tears.

"It's not right, m'lord," she insisted when she saw him, "she may've been a bit of whore but she was a good girl asides that: she was always cheerful and worked hard when she weren't with th'soldiers or tradesmen."

Her body was covered with snow, clearly having lain there some time; only her face has been brushed clean. Her eyes were staring open and her face was blue, her lips purple.

"Has she been here all night?" Sandor demanded now, his eyes sweeping the face around him. The old innkeeper stepped forward looking piteous.

"Forgives me, m'lord, I nevers thought to check iffen she'd gone to bed." He grasped his hands together in helplessness and blinked many times. "I'da never thought a woman's be kill't, and her more a girl still, m'lord."

Sandor kneeled to take a closer look, noting there were no bloodstains on the snow. He brushed away more of the icy snow from her face and stopped suddenly and squinted hard.

"Strangled, it looks to be," he rasped, "though hard to tell with her all blue from cold. Dig her out," he ordered, "carefully, and look for anything while you're at it."

"M'lord?"

"Anything that may have been dropped, or footprints that are still apparent…that aren't yours," he jeered somewhat since there were now so many soldiers and villagers standing around that it would be impossible to distinguish one person's path from another's. Just as he was about to order them all away but the few needed, a hush fell over the group gathered behind the inn.

"M'lady," they all murmured, bobbing and bowing their heads respectfully.

Sandor turned to see Sansa walking towards him; her head was high but her face was drawn and her countenance somber. Even at this moment, his heart filled with pride to see how beautiful she was and how noble, even in grief.

"My lord," she addressed him respectfully, "I am told to my great sadness that a girl is dead."

"Aye, my lady: that is true," he rasped.

"Who was she?" she asked softy.

The innkeeper replied. "She' a been my servin'…girl. Jeynie Snow, she was, m'lady."

Sansa turned and put her hand gently on the man's arm. "I am very sorry," she told him.

"She weren't bad, m'lady: Happy Jeynie, they called her; she jus' wanted a bit more t'eat and warmer clothes…from the soldiers, they brung 'em t'her from th'castle as, well, as a sorta trade, m'lady," the innkeeper's wife explained.

"I know," Sansa told her, "I offered her work in the castle once and she told me she would prefer staying with you, that you treated her well. I am grateful that one of our many orphaned northerners found a home with you."

The innkeeper and his wife bowed their heads to her and she turned back to walk towards the body in the snow.

Sandor stepped to block her. 'You don't needs look, my lady," he rasped low.

She looked up at him with infinitely sad blue eyes. "I must," she insisted softly. Sansa kneeled and at first closed her eyes against the horrible sight but then forced herself to look upon her.  _She is of the North: a Snow like Jon was, dark-haired like Arya._  She brushed snow off the girl's frozen hair, and heaved a great trembling sigh.

"We'll dig her out of there, m'lady" one soldier told her kindly.

"Thank you," Sansa replied, "please, treat her gently." When she rose, there were tears frozen to her lashes and the innkeeper approached her timidly.

"Will ye not come in to git warm, m'lady? My wife can make ye a cuppa nettle tea."

Sansa smiled wanly. "I would be most grateful to you, thank you." She turned to the people who had gathered before going inside.

"My Northern friends," she began shakily and then steadied herself. "I am so very sorry for these senseless deaths, and I assure you that we at Winterfell have and will continue to do our duty to try to solve-" she halted helplessly, "what is happening here. In the meantime, I beg you please not to go out alone, and to look out for one another, and we shall try to look out for you as well. I know that we have survived worse; but at least we knew then who and what we were fighting."

….

The girl was laid out on a trestle table near the fire for the maester to examine. The innkeeper's wife had fetched the rough sheet from her bed as a shroud and placed it neatly and reverently next to her head. When she sat back down again, Sansa took her hand to hold.

"Well?" Sandor asked gruffly.

The maester peered hard. "Definitely marks on her neck," he prodded her gently, "and her breathing passage is crushed." He shook his head now. "No blood on her clothing, my lord, nor sign that it was removed," he lowered his voice so that the women may not hear him.

"Then she wasn't…" Sandor asked leadingly.

The maester shook his head again. "Not violently, my lord; any act she may have engaged in was with consent. Her smallclothes are tied neatly," the man whispered, casting a furtive eye to his liege lady.

Sandor looked down at the body pensively.

_Look upon the dead brother, they have much to tell us._

"Shall we shroud her now, my lord?" the maester asked.

"She saw him," Sandor rasped quietly.

"My lord?"

Sansa approached him. "What is it, my lord?"

"The young smith and the cooper were done for from behind: the rock to the back of the head, the knife to the throat," he explained. "But this," he showed him by putting his hands out as though to grasp Sansa's throat," he would have to face her, wouldn't he?"

"He likely would have, my lord, but…what matter?"

"She was not heard to scream, was she?" he questioned the innkeeper.

"Nay, m'lord; the tavern'd been fulla soldiers and commons; they'da heard'er."

_Didn't scream, but might be she tried to fight, but a half-starved girl could not fight for her life._

_Once you could easily tell the high-born from the commons,_ Elder Brother had remarked of the bodies that washed up from the ravaged Riverlands _, but look at them: they're all starving now, brother._

"She must have known him then," he concluded. "He must be from the winter town."

Sansa knit her brow together in frustration. "But why?"

"She never harmed nobody here, m'lord," the innkeeper's wife protested.

"Not intentionally, but what about jealousy, or rivalry; is there someone she'd spurned, or mayhaps laughed at? Was she ever with the young smith or the cooper?"

The innkeeper looked uncomfortable. "Coop: might be; not young Flyn, I don't think, m'lord. But Jeynie…I don't think she's turned no ones down; she liked the attention well enough, well enough not t'be so particular, if you'll forgive me, m'lady," he inclined his head to Sansa.

"I understand," Sansa replied evenly, and she did. Had she not once been a bastard girl? Born of lust, it was said, and so were thought to be full of lust themselves. No one had expected her to be particular or even to object if they tried to grope her or even simply assume that they could have her. Jeynie Snow had probably never been given a choice at all and so decided instead to get what she could from men's attentions. Sansa decided then that all Northern girls should have a better choice; she would see to it somehow.

Meanwhile Sandor was brooding darkly on his theory, staring down at the dead girl and trying to unlock the mystery of the murders. Finally he told the maester to shroud the girl and take her away. Then he turned back to the innkeeper.

"If any man should stop coming in, and you think it may be because of her…you will let me know," he instructed him.

"A-aye, m'lord," he agreed though Sansa thought the man seemed unconvinced. His wife covered her face with her hands now, to see the girl enveloped in death.

….

The Blackfish tread quietly behind the homes in the winter town, stopping behind that of the baker's. He knew the man was at the forge with other villagers talking about the girl's murder since his voice carried louder and further than most. He reached out to open a back door, hoping to find it barred securely but instead it swung open easily to reveal the back of the baker's wife bent over a table, hard at work. It only took a moment for her to feel the rush of cold air and turn around with a gasp.

"Forgive me," he spoke low, "I wished to see if you were properly protected, and I am grieved to learn that you are not. You must be more careful, I implore you: a young woman at the inn was killed last night."

The woman wrapped herself in a patched shawl and came to the back door, immediately putting her hands out to close it. She paused long enough to speak to him though.

"Tha'd be Jeynie then, the lit'l whore?" She asked without raising her eyes to look at him. She had dark hair tied loosely at the back of her neck though the pieces falling in her face did little to obscure the faded bruises on her cheek and near her mouth.

He raised his grey eyebrows in surprise at her coarseness. "I know that she served there," he replied.

"Then ye' don' know much, do ye'? It's nuthin' t'me, is it?" she said quickly and began to shut the door.

"It is if you are not careful; your door should be barred-" he began earnestly. He saw that she was frightened, not cruel.

"Please, Ser," she implored in a lower voice, "there's nuthin' I can do 'bout it; he says no, so it's no. Now please begone 'afore he comes back-"

"He's at the forge," Blackfish reassured her, "and you're frightened of him, I understand; but I am concerned for you, as is my lady."

She looked at him sharply now. "Why'd your wife be thinkin' o'me then?"

He smiled slightly. "My great-niece, the Lady of Winterfell is concerned for you," he corrected himself. "She wishes to know if you would like to go away from here, to another village or castle, with your children of course."

"My husban'-"

"Without your husband," he told her quietly but firmly, "for your safety."

The woman's chin seemed to quiver though she pursed her lips together tightly.

"It won't work, I tells ye'; it never does. He's found me 'afore, and then it's only worse. Says I can go to th'Red Waste an' he'll find me," she told him in a quavering voice.

The Blackfish scoffed. "Then let us take you away and mayhaps that is where he will go to search for you…if we are lucky."

"Ser?"

"The Red Waste is a great barren stretch of hot, dry land in Essos, without food, water or shelter; few have entered it and lived," he explained patiently, "I would hope the same for him."

"That's not kind," she stammered uneasily.

"Nor is how he treats you," he retorted flatly. The woman dropped her eyes again and he saw she was ashamed. "Forgive me," he said as gently as he could, "I will not force you to act; you have enough such treatment already. But I implore you to bar your doors and protect yourself and your children. If you should ever change your mind, if we might help you, I pray you come to the castle if you can, or ask any soldier to send for me and I will come for you. You are not without friends," he finished.

The woman pursed her lips again and shook her head. "I thanks ye'" she told him hoarsely, "but it won't work."

She shut the door to the bakery, and left him standing in the cold.

….

_Din'I tell ye there's be another killin' afore long? An' a woman too, gods pertect us all._

_I still says it's them wildlin's,_ the tanner nodded knowingly,  _one or mores come ta steal our wimmens, an' Happy Jeynie, she wouldna go._

 _Coop had no woman, ye daft git,_  the baker sneered, _can'ye no see it's th'Hound? Th'lady herself's got a bun in th'oven, th'innkeep's wife'd swear it. Gods help her iffen she births a son cuz then'er days'll be numbered fer sure, an 'then the young lord's._ He glowered hatefully.  _Sumpin' needs be done 'bout that curs't dog…._


	8. Chapter 8

Sandor gave the garrison stern and specific orders: they were to patrol in twos and never have a man alone, even if one needed to piss. Even those who were not on duty but were going to the inn to drink were to stick together. Any soldiers found to have flouted the orders would be flogged and put on half-rations.

Angry and with his head pounding, he turned up the stairs to his and Sansa's chambers to rest. He chided himself the whole way up, wondering if he could truly bring himself to flog any of the young men under his command; might be he's give them the chance to do extra work instead. There was always work to be done in Winterfell: the daylight hours were always filled with the sawing and banging of the carpenters and the clanging of the smith and his apprentices and with shouts and crashes of crumbled masonry being felled or the sounds of repaired masonry being chiseled and knocked into place.

Then he cursed himself for a fool: when the commander threatened flogging, he would have to carry out his threats or lose respect.

Despite the normal heavy work, this day had been quieter than most; the tradesmen had carried on but everyone had been subdued and thoughtful and even grim. Three unexplained murders of locals, especially one of a young girl who was known to most of the men, cast a pall over the entire castle. Conversations were in nearly hushed tones and laughter was not heard at all.

When he reached their chamber, he was surprised and somewhat annoyed to see Sansa looking fraught as she paced back and forth before the hearth with their daughter in her arms. He had hoped to find respite and solace but here their whelp was fussing and wailing and refusing to be stilled. When she saw him, the little wretch held out her arms and cried louder. Sandor grimaced and very nearly backed out of the room.

"Forgive me, Sandor; the women in the nursery were upset all day and Catya has become very upset herself," Sansa told him. "Oh! Not again," she murmured as she stooped to pick up what appeared to be a little knotted rag. She dipped it into a bowl of milk and held it to Catya's mouth, but Catya pushed it away with a sour face.

"What in seven hells are you trying to give her, little bird?" he rasped.

"Just milk on a rag she can bite; she is cutting her teeth," she said absently as she tried in vain to cajole Catya by bouncing her in her arms.

"A dummy teat, is it? No bloody wonder she's fussing; I wouldn't care for any but the real kind myself."

"Oh, Sandor…" she half-laughed distractedly. "She will stay with us tonight," she told him now.

"Buggering hells," he swore impatiently, "do I needs sleep in the stables? Where are the nurses?"

"I told you they are all very upset, many girls and women in the castle were weeping today."

"Over a wench? I can understand the soldiers crying in their ales since they sheathed their cocks in her; but not the women."

"She was kind and cheerful, to hear tell; and they are frightened, Sandor. I imagine having survived this far, they believed that they were finally safe. It must be very disheartening."

"I'll keep you both safe, little bird," he rasped closely now. Once he was nearer, Catya's wails subsided to soft hiccups and she jammed her chubby fist into her mouth.

"What's this?" he asked her sternly. "Are we on such short rations that you needs eat your own fingers? Here, girl," he gently shook the little knotted rag at her and she took it from him and bit down on it, sucking on the milk.

Sansa smiled contentedly. "She calmed for you, Sandor; please would you hold her a short while? Rose will help me undress and then I will settle into bed and sing to her. Mayhaps she will fall asleep and not trouble you tonight."

He took Catya into his arms and she looked up to her father expectantly and flung the little rag to the floor again. He reached down to pick it up and dipped it once again into the milk.

"Here, take it, girl: it's all the teat you or I will be like to get this cold night."

Rose entered their chamber to ready Sansa for bed and so Sandor took Catya to sit on his bench. Once they were settled, his daughter offered him her rag with a wordless exclamation.

"You keep it," he told her, "if I wanted soothing, I'd suck on a flagon of sour red."

"There is a small amount of wine stored away, I am told; though it is not to be equal to those in King's Landing," Sansa informed him as she stepped out of her heavy wool gown, devoid of ornamentation. She had little time for luxuries like embroidery and had used what little fine thread she had to stitch dogs on Sandor's few tunics. As a newly made lord, she had wanted him wear his sigil proudly.

"Hear that, girl? We could have wine; or might be the sight of your lovely mother is intoxicating enough," he rasped.

Sansa blushed delicately as Rose stripped her of her worn corset and underskirts before helping her pull her nightdress down over her head. After she slipped off her stockings and smallclothes, she sat perched on a stool so that Rose could unbind and brush her hair. Catya chewed on her rag as she stared up at her father.

"What are you looking at, girl? Do big, dark, ugly things please you so much?"

"Heeee," she smiled and then giggled, waving her knotted pacifier in her little fist. Sandor furrowed his brow, perplexed.

"She adores you, Sandor; I knew she would settle in your arms," Sansa looked at them fondly.

"'That so? If my face can calm you, just what might give you bloody nightmares, girl: pretty butterflies and soft puppies? Or do you fear even bigger, scarier men? Hm, known a few of them myself," he confided and then leaned down closer to her. "'Hope you never do," he rasped. "Meanwhile you'll be safe here with us. I'm your papa, and that splendid creature having her hair brushed is your lady mother. She'll brush your hair for you someday, I'll wager; like her mother did for her."

Catya had her clear grey eyes fixed on him and then she blinked: once, twice, and her tiny smile broke into a yawn.

"She's finally getting sleepy," Sansa noted softly.

"More likely I'm boring the little pup," Sandor replied.

"Mayhaps I should start singing?"

" _Florian and Jonquil_  is it? Might be I'll flee to the winter town against my own orders and the Blackfish will needs flog me before the whole garrison." Instead he looked down at his daughter and began to quietly sing his own favourite.

_The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,_

_and her kisses were warmer than spring._

_But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,_

_and its kiss was a terrible thing._

_The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,_

_in a voice that was sweet as a peach,_

_But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,_

_and a bite sharp and cold as a leech._

Catya closed her eyes now and gave a big sigh. As he sang, Sandor reached to cradle her head and stroked her downy dark hair with his large thumb.

_As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,_

_and the taste of his blood on his tongue,_

_His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,_

_and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,_

Sandor had stood and crossed slowly towards the hearth where Catya's cradle had been moved to Sansa's side of the bed. He gently lowered his sleeping daughter into her furs and continued the song as he sat on the edge of the stone hearth and rocked the cradle back and forth. Sansa nodded to Rose and the girl slipped out quietly.

_Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,_

_the Dornishman's taken my life,_

_But what does it matter, for all men must die,_

_and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife._

….

Sansa curled up on her side and gazed down at her sleeping babe in the soft glow of the dying hearthlight. Sandor lay curled behind her, his breath on her neck. He had lifted her nightdress again, and wrapped his arm around her body underneath it with his large calloused hand cupping one of her breasts. She could feel his long, large but now soft member pressed into the warmth of her behind.

"Why do you like that song so much, Sandor?" she whispered now. "It's the only one I have ever heard you sing."

"I know many bawdier songs, little bird, it you care to hear what drunkards and whores sing in winesinks," he offered sleepily.

"Many thanks, but you may save them for the garrison, my love," she giggled softly and then waited for a reply to her question. She thought she heard him sigh.

"Cersei," he mumbled, and Sansa shifted slightly in her shock to hear the name uttered.

"…had a Dornish handmaiden. She sent her to me when I was her shield, to distract me, when her brother  _visited,_ " his voice sneered.

"Oh," Sansa remarked, feeling a pang of jealousy. "I imagine you did not protest," she jested mildly.

"'Didn't know," he breathed. "I thought- I thought she came to me on her own." He paused. "I was young then, not twenty years; didn't know better. Should have known though," he rasped quietly.

Sansa swallowed at this revelation. "How- how did you know?"

"Cersei rewarded her with a betrothal to a knight, a Dornishman of course: she wouldn't look at me after that. I sent her a gift, a small thing; she sent it back. Once she was gone, Cersei sent her Lorathi handmaiden so I knew. I sent  _her_  back." He sounded bitter, and he paused again. "So she gave me to Joffrey. Anyways, the song gave me reason to laugh at myself."

Sansa's mind was a jumble. She thought she wanted to cry, and marveled that petty cruelties still affected her when she had seen so much worse. She wished Cersei to suffer and die all over again; she wanted not to think of her at all, certainly not in their marriage bed in Winterfell. She took a deep breath.

"Did the Dornish knight find out?"

"About me? Not likely; I didn't matter to her none."

"But he must have known…I mean, he must have suspected that his wife was no maid," she wondered.

He grunted. "Dornishmen don't care about that so much; not before marriage anyway. They care when their lady is theirs and is whelping pups but before… They're freer with themselves is all," he finished and yawned. He settled again behind her, tucking his chin over her shoulder.

"Do you care about- Would you love me less, or not at all, if I had not been your alone, Sandor?"

She felt his arm turn to iron as he tensed and heard his breath come louder. "The Imp, you mean, or Baelish: how would I feel if they'd had you?" His voice was an angry growl. "Why, I'd have pitied you then, and might be it's harder to love as much when you feel sorry for someone."

_You'll never truly love anyone, brother, so long as you hate yourself because you will never trust them to love you back._ He had thought they had both had her once and had treated her coldly despite swearing himself to her, but it was himself he had hated, for not having protected her. When he'd found that she was still a maid, he had very nearly wept with relief: for her sake, not his; or so he had told himself then.

He raised his head slightly and rasped in her ear. " _Never_  feel sorry for me, little bird."

She turned her head towards his. "I don't," she whispered, "I couldn't. I have always envied your strength, Sandor." She reached gently to touch his face with the backs of her fingers, and he pressed his lips to them before pulling her closer and putting his head down again.

Sansa had not lied: she did envy his strength; but sometimes she hurt for him, to think of all that he had suffered to come by it. Sometimes she thought of her own father and all he had suffered: his father, his brother, his sister, her own mother's resentment of Jon, Bran's fall, leaving Winterfell to serve King Robert. She had never realized how strong he was, never truly appreciated all he had done, for his family and for the North. She almost sobbed to remember that she had once admired men for their pretty looks, their painted armour and their jousting skills. Had her own strength not been born of her suffering as well? But as she looked down again at Catya, and felt Sandor's strong arm around her protecting her and their babe inside her, she resolved to be stronger still, stronger than she had ever needed to be: she had her own family now and her father's responsibilities. She would not fail; but she also knew that she needed him.

"I could not do this without you, Sandor," she whispered. "Please protect yourself as well."

He did not reply. She only felt his steady, warm breath on her shoulder and knew that he slept.

….

The Blackfish lay back in his bed with his arms folded behind his head. He let out a heavy sigh as he remembered the baker's wife. He saw her big dark eyes, full of sadness and fear, and wished that he could take it away for her. He kept seeing the smear of flour on her dress, how it traced the curve of her full breast. He wanted to reach out and brush it away, and feel the soft warmth and weight beneath. He had grown very hard thinking about it, and then trying not to think about it.

"Yer trout'd be ready to swim upstream, then, soldier?" He opened heavy-lidded blue eyes to see Squirrel standing naked at the foot of his bed, eyeing the obvious hardness in his breeches. She would do, he decided, and he reached out his hand to her as she crawled towards him on the furs.

….

Rose wiped her tears as she hurried to her small chamber and nearly rushed headlong into a young soldier in the hall. She jumped, startled.

_S-sorry,_  he stammered and peered at her.  _Alright then?_  He asked her, looking concerned.

Rose nodded brusquely, wanting to be left alone.

_An' your boy then, he's alright as well?_

Rose covered her face with her hands and sobbed once.

_Here now, I'm sorry; I was just askin'_ , he began apologetically,  _I'm on watch so-_.

_His father'll never hold'im nor sing to 'im,_ she blurted,  _likes I jus' saw Lord Clegane do for his lit'l girl._ She sniffled.  _Never known a man te sing for'is wee ones._

_Nay, nor me. But he's a good man, he is; better'n most gives due._

Rose knew that for a fact, but would not say.  _'spect yer right. Will he keep us safe here, d'you think?_

_Safe as anythin': no harm'll come t'anyone in th'castle, we'll see t'it,_  he insisted confidently.

_Thank'e…_ she waited for a reply.

_Name's Kit,_  he smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

"Soldier!"

The young men turned around and saw nothing, only a man further up the road who was scooping fresh snow into a pot to boil for water. The man hurried back into the warmth of his log home.

"Soldier! Up here," the woman's voice called again.

One looked up to see a dark haired woman looking out from behind a shuttered window.

"The Blackfish," she whispered hoarsely. "You must send'im here straight away; he promised me he'd come iffen there was trouble. Please!"

They stood rooted and looked at each other dumbly, wondering what to do. The Commander had ordered them to stick together in groups of two or risk being flogged.

"Hurry!' Her voice nearly rose to a screech.

"We're supposed to watch for th'killer," one said to her.

She banged her forehead against the shutter in frustration. "Ye fools, he's  _been_  here," she sobbed, "now fetch the Blackfish, please!"

….

Though soldiers and commons had gathered, the baker's wife would open the door to none but the Blackfish. Once he arrived, he ordered two soldiers around the back and entered the home carefully.

The baker lay on his back, open-mouthed and with his wide, startled eyes staring and a large knife stuck in his ribs. Dark blood had poured out from his chest and pooled beneath him. There were some empty pans on the floor but no flour. His wife was crouched now beside the front door, rocking and shaking and whimpering.

"Your little girls?" he questioned her gently.

"Upstairs, Ser," she sputtered and shook her head. "I dinna want'em te see, so's I locked'em in."

"What happened? Did you see-"

"Nay, nay," she cried. "I's upstairs when it- I heard'im shout and bang about," her voice was high and thin, a frightened child's voice. "But'e always was about cursin' an' throwin' things when'e was angry, so's I didn't pay no mind 'til I heard nothin' more for a whiles after. An'then I came down-"

She broke off and clamped her hand over her mouth: too shocked and terrified, he thought, to describe further.

"It's alright now: you're safe now, as are your daughters," he reassured her. "Stay there; and I'll be back."

Her eyes grew wide as he turned to walk away. He crossed the room, stepping over the body and taking in the room and its contents before looking out the back door. The two soldiers he had sent were walking up and down, looking at the ground.

"Did you see anyone, or anything?"

"Just lotsa footprints, Ser: we patrolled behind th'homes as well last night, like the Commander told us. Do we needs stay, Ser? Folks is emptyin' their chamber pots back'ere abouts now," he noted with distaste.

"You'll stay until the Commander relieves you, soldier. Cover your nose with your scarf and turn downwind," he advised curtly. He went back inside.

"Can you stand now?" he offered the woman his hand. She stood shakily. "Forgive me, but I needs ask you if anything is missing."

"Missing?" she questioned, confused. "Is he a thief as well?"

"Please," he prompted her.

She stepped gingerly towards the table, walking wide around her husband's body and not looking at it. With only a brief look, she shook her head.

"Nothing then?" The Blackfish sighed. "Would he not have started baking by now?"

She looked at him oddly. "Aye, iffen he was alive, Ser," she answered.

Just then the front door opened, and Sandor and the maester walked in. Sandor nodded grimly to him.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" The Blackfish asked her finally.

She looked at him in the eyes for the first time, then her chin quivered and she held back a sob. "Jus' get'im out o'here, please," she whispered desperately, "afore my children sees."

….

"Poor woman," Sansa murmured, "she was right to spare her children the sight," She shuddered to remember seeing her own father's execution and wished Sandor would comfort her but he was strapping on his sword belt to leave for training.

"The Blackfish offered to bring them here to Winterfell but she wouldn't hear of it," he told her now. "At least we got her to agree to the bars and locks her husband refused. Mayhaps we should see to it she has women's training as well, little bird."

Sansa nodded. "I think that would be a good idea, Sandor; I'll ask Great-uncle Bryden if he would speak with her."

"Her too," he nodded, indicating Rose who was busying herself with Sansa's clothes from the wash. She has already lain out a dark blue-grey wool dress for Sansa to wear.

Rose turned around to see Sansa and Sandor looking at her. "M'lady?" she asked.

"It's alright, Rose. My lord has reminded me that you have not had training yet: all the women in Winterfell must learn to use arms such as a dagger or spear; and to free herself from holds such as an attacker might use, and to inflict injuries. Lord Clegane oversees these training sessions himself, with the aid of my great-uncle, Ser Brynden Tully of Riverrun."

M-me, m'lady, use a  _dagger_?" Rose stammered.

"Yes, Rose. Women cannot always rely on someone else; we must know to defend ourselves and others should we need to."

"If you say so, m'lady," she looked unconvinced. "M'lord." She bowed her head to Sandor as well.

"Stay here," he ordered. "I'll show you how it works. Say I were to grab you by the throat-" he began, putting his hands out towards her.

"Please," she shrunk from him.

" _Please_? Do you think manners will save you, girl?" he rasped. "Look me in the eye and tell me to  _fuck off!_ "

Rose shook her head vigorously. "I couldna, m'lord!"

"You can and you will…if you want to live, girl." He sighed. "My lady says ' _be_  off' if that is easier for you," he conceded.

The girl nodded meekly.

"Fine,  _be_  off with you then; and report for training when I tell you," he rasped impatiently.

"Sandor!" Sansa admonished him when she had left. "She is only recently widowed; can you not be gentler with her?"

"No," he rasped gruffly. "I cannot be gentle with anyone. Has our killer been gentle? Of course not. Until he is caught we must all be on our guard and not let niceties get in the way of survival."

Sansa looked levelly at him. "Without niceties, Sandor; I wonder if it is worth surviving at all."

Sandor looked momentarily astonished and then sneered. "I thought I'd taught you better, little bird. Mayhaps you needs report for training as well; your memory seems to have failed you." He turned away from her and left their chamber.

….

Still smarting from his hurtful comment, Sansa decided to attend training with Rose and the baker's wife, now widow, and several other women from Winterfell and the winter town. The innkeeper's wife proved the most adept and outspoken, saying she had dealt with enough drunks and freeloaders to, in hers words, 'take no  _shyte_  from anyones'. Sandor bared his teeth in a wicked grin and asked if she would be his second-in-command once the Blackfish returned to Riverrun. The robust woman had laughed heartily, her bosom heaving in her tightly-laced, worn wool dress.

When Sansa's turn came to demonstrate breaking holds and using a dagger, she saw Sandor's mouth twitch into a smile and something like pride shine in his eyes when he saw that she remembered everything he had taught her. There were others present and so he simply nodded and told her: "Well done, my lady." Sansa felt her resentment melting to think of when he had first taught her, after he became her sworn shield and before he became her lover.

"Thank you, my lord," she replied softly, looking him in his eyes before dropping hers daintily.

She watched then as Rose struggled diligently and earnestly to learn, as she did with all her duties at Winterfell, and felt bad to see that Sandor was only passing satisfied with her efforts.

The bakers widow struggled the most thought, and could not even raise her eyes to Sandor's and flinched and shrunk away whenever he even stepped towards her. But Sansa was surprised and pleased that he did not lose his patience, and instead turned her over to Squirrel. The poor woman had clearly suffered such abuses that she could not even think to do aught but tolerate them. Sansa understood too well how that felt, having suffered the same torment in the Red Keep. She knew the helplessness and the feeling that nothing could save you or spare you, not even complete submission. She had to turn away; hating to recognize the same resignation to pain and humiliation she had once lived. _I am the Lady of Winterfell_ , she told herself before turning back to the yard with her head held high. She went to stand beside Sandor, and thanked the women and praised them for their bravery.

"You are women of the North, as I am, and we will stand against any foe, for ourselves and our families and for the North."

…

Later Sansa left the keep to cross the yard to the kitchen when she heard a strange sound. She paused and listened and thought she heard someone gasping for breath in the larder.  _The killer_ , her mind screamed immediately. She quickly unsheathed the dagger she was still wearing and pushed open the door, prepared to strike.

Inside the cool, dark storeroom, she found the wilding woman, Squirrel, leaning over a barrel with her dress pulled up as her Great-uncle Bryden bent over her and thrust into her with a concentrated vigor. Both were panting and gasping as they neared their peaks and a startled Sansa dropped her dagger as her hand flew to her mouth.

"Forgive me," she breathed, and turned to run out without looking back. She hurried all the way back to the keep before realizing that she had meant to go towards the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, she set out again across the yard and nodded and smiled to the respectful greetings she received. Someone fell in step beside her and spoke:

"You dropped this, m'lady."

It was Squirrel, slipping her dagger back in her hand.

"Forgive me, Squirrel," Sansa whispered, "I did not mean-"

"Did you think he was murdering me, then?" Squirrel scoffed lightly. "Or me him?"

"I heard… I did not mean to come between the two of you…that is-" Sansa could not seem to find the right words.

"There's no 'two of us', m'lady: even I can see that though I'm not looking: he always turns me away or shuts his eyes, so it's not really me he's having, is it? Just my parts." She sounded resigned, even as she jested.

"My Great-uncle is a good man, Squirrel; but he has never married, nor settled on any woman. I fear this way be his way with them," Sansa tried to console her.

"I'm fated to always be wanting them that wants someone else," Squirrel replied of herself disparagingly. "Some women has got a talent for it: I'm one of them." She smirked. "If only women were allowed to carry off the men we wanted, like they can do with us." With a nod and a smile she left Sansa's side, leaving her feeling momentarily desolate for the wildling woman.

 _Never feel sorry for me, little bird._ Squirrel was strong too, like Sandor, and lonely mayhaps, as he had once been. Sansa would not feel sorry for her either, and was certain that Squirrel would never think to feel sorry for herself. She tucked her dagger back into its sheath, and continued walking toward the kitchen.

….

 _Th'baker said there'd be more killin's but he weren't like to count he'd be one o'em,_ the Blacksmith grumbled in his forge.

 _Still think it's 'em wildlin's; who else?_ The tanner asked.

 _Did they take his wimmen then? Baker kept a sayin' it be the dog, an' now the baker's been done for. Jeynie was done so's we know wimmen can be kill't too…so's we don't ask no questions when our lady's kill't,_ the smith waved his hammer as he spoke.

 _How's that right, then? The dog hisself teaches wimmin to fight; there's some frum the village that's been shown to kill even, and they says our lady's right quick with a blade. Th'innkeeper tol's us so,_ the tanner challenged him.

 _So he knows whats they knows…and don't knows: doncha get it? He's a crafty one, that dog. There'll be one dies at th'castle soon enuff, lessen we does sumthin',_ he turned a sword he was forging in his hands,  _likes the baker tolds us to do…afore we're done for as'e was._


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa sat at her desk in the solar with her brow furrowed in concentration over the accounts of the castle. Though she was not so scattered about sums as she had been as a girl; not after her time in the Vale as the Eyrie's lady under the tutelage of Littlefinger, the castle did more business in trade now than in coin, and many tradesmen were still owed for their work on the castle. She prayed for a good first harvest come the spring and for better weather that would allow goods to move between castles and villages and other parts of the Seven Kingdoms as well as across the Narrow Sea with Essos so that the North could be prosperous again. She was proud of herself that she had learned to live with privation and to manage the castle as well she had with the help of the maester and her advisors and of course with Sandor. But the girl she had once been still wished for pretty clothes of velvet and silk, dreamt of fine doublets and leather boots and gloves for Sandor, and soft linens for her daughter and their babe yet to be born. Sometimes when Rose brushed and braided her hair she found that she wanted ribbons, or perfume and oils for her bath, or soft doeskin slippers and dozens of skeins of fine silk thread for embroidery.

She opened her eyes from her reveries. "Stupid little bird," she murmured, scolding herself. She moved the candle closer to the ledger.

A shadow fell across the table and she looked up to see her Great-uncle Brynden. She immediately looked down again from embarrassment before peeping up at him again.

"Great-uncle Brynden," she greeted him.

He wore a rueful smile. "I'm so sorry, Sansa, that you saw what you saw earlier." Now he could not look at her. "You must think me a foolish old man, or worse-"

"No, Great-uncle, I think you neither bad nor foolish. Please, I am married now and I understand such things…such needs," she blushed, knowing she sometimes liked for Sandor to take her roughly: it make her feel wanted.

"The wildlings are aptly named," he jested; then he shook his head to apologize for his crude remark. "Forgive me, child; I've spent too much time with soldiers."

Sansa's blush crept back into her cheeks. "Squirrel is a wildling, Great-uncle; but she is also a woman and has a woman's heart. I pray that you do not take that too lightly."

"As I have said, Sansa, I have been a soldier all my life and it is the only life I wanted. I care for family, believe me I do; but I have never yearned for one of my own. I feared it was not important enough to me to be a good husband and father; and that is not something anyone should take too lightly, but I fear many men do."

Sansa twirled the quill in her hand and bit her lip. "Are you saying a soldier has not the makings of a good husband and father?" she asked tentatively.

The Blackfish tilted his head curiously at her question. "Not at all: your father was excellent at both," he smiled faintly, reassuringly. "He took all his responsibilities very seriously, though I believe he also loved those to do with his family, Sansa."

She looked down at the ledger again. "Do you think that…he would have married my mother if he had not felt honor-bound to do so?"

"I think your father would have married the girl his father told him to marry...unlike me," he scoffed. Refusing to marry the girl his brother Hoster Tully had chosen for him was the reason he was called 'Blackfish': the maverick of the Tully family. "What is this about, child?" he asked gently.

She hesitated before speaking, fearing that she was being disloyal. "Sandor," she replied finally, "has always been a soldier: I worry mayhaps I have asked too much of him…" she confided.

Brynden Tully rolled his eyes. "Gods, child, you did not force Sandor Clegane to marry you," he began.

"Didn't I?" she countered swiftly, her eyes meeting his sharply before she dropped them again.

He sighed, knowing of what she spoke: everyone who had been present when they wed in the Godswood had pointedly ignored her swelling middle. Thank the gods for winter cloaks, he had thought then. "He loves you, Sansa: never doubt that, but he has never had a place in life as he has here; except as a  _dog_. He may not be the man your father was but he needs to get used to being married and having a family, likely he never thought he would marry until he had you." He winced at his choice of words. "Does he not try?" he asked her.

Tears welled up when she thought of how he had sung to Catya. He had been gruff and stern but he had sung softly and had held and carried her so gently that her heart had filled so that she could scarcely breathe. Not trusting her voice at this moment, she merely nodded.

"Yes," she finally whispered, "he does."

"Your mother stayed on at Riverrun for nigh over a year after she was wedded and bedded, and then came here," he looked around the nearly empty room lit only by her sole candle and the rationed hearth light, "to find your father had another son and to hear the servants talk of Jon's mother…"

"Did my father love Lady Ashara?" she asked him. Everyone then had gossiped that she had borne Eddard Stark's bastard.

The Blackfish shook his head. "Child, every man in Westeros who set eyes on Lady Ashara Dayne fell in love with her; but the truth is your father did not know Ashara Dayne, not as he came to know, and love, Cat, your mother. That comes with time, Sansa: give Clegane time. He already knows and loves you, let him learn to love being a husband and a father," he finished in his smokey voice.

Sansa smiled sweetly at him. "You did not lie, Great-uncle: you do care about family; and I am grateful."

The Blackfish looked around suddenly, his brow furrowed and his mouth set into stern lines.

"How is it you are here alone, Sansa? I had hoped to speak with you privately but now I wonder at how easily I crept up on you. I don't like it at all, I will speak to Sandor-"

"Oh, no, Great-uncle; do not trouble Sandor any more than he already is. This is all so vexing for him, and I can see the strain it has caused him," she implored him. "Surely he cannot spare soldiers from the garrison for me."

'You're the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa. It cannot be that you are unprotected in your own castle; I will find someone suitable myself if you do not wish for me to speak with Sandor; but you will not fight me on this."

"Very well," she relented, "though I think it unnecessary in the castle, Great-uncle. Mayhaps I can have Squirrel, though she has proven tireless at organizing the kitchen; she may wish to handle a spear again."

"Well, she'll not handle mine anymore, I promise you that; not if she is to guard you," he told her.

Sansa blushed again. "Just tell me that you were careful, Great-uncle; I – I know I am not the right person to say so at the moment," she said, lacing her fingers together over her belly, "but we do not need extra mouths to feed."

"Don't fret, child: there's always moon tea," he said standing up to leave.

Sansa watched him walk away.  _Not always,_ she thought,  _not enough._

….

As she later walked to her chambers, Sansa saw shadows on the wall of what appeared to be two people struggling. She pulled her dagger again and turned the corner quietly where, to her horror, she saw Rose fighting off a soldier.

"Stop! I command you!" She shouted as loud as she could, as Sandor had taught her.  _Fuck soft-spoken, little bird: let them hear you across all Seven Kingdoms._

The soldier turned suddenly and she saw he was a young man. "M'lady," he released Rose and bowed his head.

"M'lady," Rose said as well.

Sansa was confused. "What are you doing?" she questioned.

"Practicing," Rose answered, embarrassed, "what I learned at training. I don'a think the Lord Commander was pleased wit' me, m'lady."

Sansa sheathed her dagger yet again, feeling foolish yet again. "That is very diligent of you, Rose; however, I could have stabbed the young man to death in your defense. Mayhaps you should practice in the yard; or with the wildling women when they train. They are quite fierce to behold."

"Yes, m'lady; I'm sure they are."

"Will you attend me now, Rose? I am very tired," Sansa requested softly, though it was understood that the Lady of Winterfell's requests were to be followed as orders. Still, Sansa believed a lady never forgot her courtesies.

"Yes. m'lady. Thank'e, Kit."

"Kit?" Sansa repeated.

"Kit Snow, m'lady," he bowed again. He seemed of an age with Rose, and had a handsome face: round like a boy's but for the dark sheen of stubble, and with a head of curly, dark hair. Sansa thought mayhaps a beard would make him look older, and less pretty.

"Good night, Kit Snow," she acknowledged him pleasantly.

"G'night, m'lady."

After Rose undressed her and put her in her nightdress, Sansa perched on the stool again to have her hair brushed.

"Is Kit Snow from the winter town, Rose?" she asked.

"I expec' so, m'lady. He was raised wit' orphans afore Lord Eddard sent'im to some crofters to work as a boy. Then they disappeared, m'lady; soon after he joined the fightin' an's been wit' a garrison ever since."

" _A_  garrison? Not this one?"

"Th'Boltons was here then, m'lady," she said quietly, "so's he joined th'Umbers who were for Lord Stannis, then came t'Winterfell when he heards Lord Rickon was to be back, an' yerself coming up frum the Neck wit' Lord Reed. Says'e owned it t'Lord Stark, m'lady."

Sansa smiled faintly. "That is nice to hear, Rose."

"Knew my Flyn a lit'l as well, m'lady, an' asks about my boy Tom."

"I am pleased that you have made a friend here, Rose; I hope your life will be easier soon. I pray that all our lives will be easier come the spring," She rose from her stool. "Good night, Rose."

"Shall I stay until Lord Clegane comes, m'lady?" Rose asked.

Sansa shook her head, making her long auburn hair swirl around her shoulders. "My lord has gone out with the patrol and will not return until much later. I'll be fine, Rose; please spend some time with your son before retiring."

"G'night, m'lady."

As soon as Rose left, Sansa pulled her nightdress back over her head and left it draped on Sandor's wooden bench. Then she turned and climbed in to his side of the bed though it was farther from the hearth.  _He will be colder outside tonight than I will be on his side of the bed._ She had every intention of warming his blood when he returned. She burrowed deeper under the furs and smiled against his bolster and waited.

….

"All quiet, Clegane?"

He turned Stranger around when he heard the voice of the Blackfish. He was accompanied by another soldier.

"Aye, first time I've ever been sorry for it. I want to catch this bloody killer, Blackfish, almost as much as I've wanted anything."

Not as much as he wanted to kill Gregor, though he'd been denied that satisfaction by Oberon Martell. He couldn't grudge the man wanting his brother dead as much as he had; the Mountain has murdered his sister, the princess Elia, and her whelp in the Tower of the Red Keep. Sandor sometimes wondered if any woman was safe in the bloody place; certainly he had not known any who were. He wouldn't tell Sansa that though, not with the Wolf Bitch as the Dragon Queen's  _guest._  But Sansa already knew, and knew that guests were not always safe, and not just in the Red Keep either. Barristan Selmy had better be good to his word; at least they had the comfort that he always had been honourable, even Sandor gave him his due in that respect.

"I'm of the same mind as you, Clegane; but you needs go back to the castle and sleep. You'll be training the men early tomorrow."

He sighed heavily, his breath fogging in the damp cold. "Aye, sleep is what I need, but it doesn't come so easy now."

With a nod, he spurred Stranger to a gallop towards the gates of Winterfell.

….

 _Quiet-like this night, it is,_ the innkeeper remarked to his wife.

 _Aye,_  his wife whispered closely _, the lord's patrollin' t'night an'those what believes the smith is inside wit' barred doors, shittin' theyselves. Th'true shit be comin' out they big mouths, y'asks me._

 _It's them wildlin's, who else can git around in the snow withouts any seein' or hearin' em: they's silent an' deadly,_  the tanner hissed.

_Aye, likes yer farts._

The innkeeper's wife laughed at her own ribald humour, and her bosom heaved against her tightly laced dress.

….

The soldier atop the outer wall of Winterfell recognized the lord commander and his great black courser galloping across the drawbridge toward the inner yard. He was about to straighten up from leaning over the wall between the merlons when he felt a hand pushing at the back of his head and a stinging cold sharpness across his neck. He heard a hiss of air and watched with bewilderment as warm, dark blood seemed to pour out over his gloved hands and down the wall.

_Oh._

He hadn't even breath left to scream as he tumbled over the edge.


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor entered quietly into their chamber, trying not to wake Sansa. He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark room and then moved to his bench to undress. He first pulled off his boots and then his tunic and shirt before he spied the flax-coloured garment draped over his pile of clothes. The instant he touched it he knew it to be Sansa's bed-gown, and when he peered into the darkness, he saw she was curled up on his side of the bed.

 _Coming to him._ Sandor's mouth twitched into a hard, knowing smirk.  _Minx._  His body had wanted sleep but now it wanted his little bird more.

He rose wearing only his breeches and crossed to the hearth where he threw the largest log he could find on the dying fire. He placed Sansa's bed-gown carefully on her bolster and crawled onto the bed until he reached his sleeping wife.

He bent his head down to nudge at her ear. "Little bird," he rasped in a hoarse whisper, "you're on my side."

"Mnn?" She stirred faintly.

He ran his tongue on her neck before taking a soft bite of her. "You're on my side; that means you're mine."

"Hmn," she seemed to agree, without being fully awake though she turned slightly toward him, exposing soft, naked shoulders beneath the furs.

He took another soft bite, this time grazing her with his teeth. "Waiting naked: such a brazen little bird," he murmured. "Don't you know that the dog is supposed to hunt the bird? But you came to me, and now I've caught you." With that, he gripped her arm below her shoulder and pulled her out from under the covers and gathered her in his arms before throwing her down across the bed on the soft, warm furs. The brighter light from the fire made the auburn hair fanned our behind her head shine like burnished copper and breathtakingly illuminated the long lines and rounded curves of her milky white body. As he gazed down at her, he thought she looked made for him.

"You've been waiting for me, so you must want something," he rasped as he pulled at his laces, "tell me what it is you want, little bird."

She arched up to him. "Mm, kiss me," she whispered.

"As you say, my lady." He bent and pressed his mouth to her teat, kissing the nipple before circling it with his tongue. Sansa gave a soft cry and sank her hand in his hair, closing it into a fist and pulling gently. He moved his mouth to her other teat as he brought his hand up to touch the first, barely brushing his rough callused palms over her skin and knowing the light, gentle touch drove her mad, made her writhe and keen and press her body into his so that she could feel all of him against her.

He crossed her wrists above her head and held them there in one large hand. Sansa looked up to see she was helpless and whimpered in protest. Sandor chuckled. Might be she wanted him but she wasn't bringing this dog to heel.

"You waited for me so you'll have me; but you'll take what I give you, little bird," he rasped low. His eyes trailed down her body, considering her; then he lifted her knee with his free hand and reached to put her dainty foot against his shoulder.

"Oh," Sansa breathed. She fixed her eyes on his, eyes that were now as dark blue as an evening sky, and she slowly brought her other foot up to his shoulder.

Sandor brought his head down closer to hers. "Aye, girl, I remember you like this," he taunted her, his mouth almost brushing hers before he pulled away so as to deny her the kiss she wanted. Instead he released his hard cock from his breeches and took himself in hand. Lowering his body onto hers, he rubbed the engorged head back and forth against her entrance.

Sansa gasped: "Sandor…"

"Such a pretty little bird," he rasped.

"…please, let me touch you. Let me feel how strong you are."

"And always chirping: chirp, chirp."

He pushed now to enter her, tucking his hips and his buttocks forward to fill her slow and deep. He took her wrists now in each hand and reared over her as he slid his cock in and out.

 _Am I awake, or am I dreaming?_  Sandor's face was hidden to her by the fall of his dark hair into his eyes. Instead Sansa watched the muscles and sinew in his neck and shoulders tense and bunch as he squeezed his grip on her wrists. She saw the tightening of his abdomen with his movements, each part defined as though chiseled in stone and she imagined the flexing of the roundness of his behind and how she loved to feel it when she could put her hands on him and push him deeper into her. She cried out sharply in her frustration.  _Gods, let me touch you._

"So strong," she pleaded, "give me all your strength, my love: I want all of it. I want all of  _you_."

Sandor grunted between his teeth with every push and bucked his hips to penetrate her further. She could hear the slapping of flesh against flesh and feel his…his  _balls_  pressing up to her behind. She bent her knees and braced her feet against his shoulder and churned her hips as he filled her so deeply that her breath hitched with the force of every powerful thrust.

Sansa's mind went numb and her felt body boneless and weak even as her very core seemed to stretch tautly to its breaking point. She arched and leaned her head far, far back as she keened loudly and shouted his name.  _Sandor._ Waves of warmth and pleasure coursed through her body: her toes curled and she flushed to her hairline and she felt the sweet, trembling and pulsing of her sex around his cock as he emptied into her with a shattering groan.

"Seven. Fucking. Hells," he breathed as he collapsed onto her, releasing her wrists and sinking his hands into her hair. He brushed his lips against her forehead, over her ear and down her throat. "Have you got what you wanted, little bird," he murmured lazily.

"Shh," she soothed him. "Sleep now."

She reached for the edges of the fur beneath them and wrapped them both in its warmth, cocooning the heat of their coupling and of their naked bodies before it could ebb. They were still lying across the bed wrapped in the fur and each other when the first light of the dawn woke them the next morning.

….

Sansa stirred first, feeling the weight of Sandor on top of her. Without opening his eyes he groaned and rolled off of her before he stretched and sat up. She ran her hand down the warm skin of his back and smiled as he looked around and then back down to where they lay across the bed. He grunted faintly in acknowledgement of how they had come to be there. He stood up. He was still wearing his unlaced breeches and pulled on the shirt and tunic he had shed the night before. Sansa reached for her bed-gown and hugged it to her.

"I had thought I was dreaming last night," she told him with a soft purr in her voice, "now I know it was real: you did love me with all your strength." She smiled at him as she pulled her bed-gown over her head. Rose would come to dress her soon.

Sandor snorted disparagingly. "Still with your fairy tale notions; I thought I  _fucked_  you last night, little bird."

Sansa's smiled died and her shoulders slumped in disappointment. "Sandor, please don't be vulgar. Just because I waited for you-"

"Whenever you need me to act the big, strong killer and fuck your fears away I'll willingly oblige you by going balls deep, girl," he bent over her with a faint sneer, "it's far better even than the wine I drank to shut out my own troubles; only don't call it  _love_ because that leaves the same bad taste as the wine sickness did."

" _You are hateful, Sandor Clegane!"_  she hurled at him as she brought her fists to his chest, sending him staggering back a step in amazement.

"How  _dare_  you?" Her face contorted in hurt and anger even as her eyes filled with tears. "How can you compare me with…with Cersei or her handmaiden or any woman who would  _use_  you just for her own purpose. I'm your  _wife_! I  _love_  you and I  _want_  to be with you!"

Sandor stepped to grasp her shoulders and push her down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Calm yourself, girl," he ordered her gruffly. "Remember your condition."

"Our  _child_ ," she retorted, "and we did not beget either of our babes by sharing a  _cup_! We  _loved_ …or have you forgotten?"

He put his face before hers. "No, little bird; I haven't forgotten," he told her sharply.

Her eyes widened suddenly and her heart sank. "You…you haven't forgiven me either," she said in realization, "for getting Catya from you." She started to sniffle. "I didn't mean to, Sandor; I knew you weren't ready. But I wanted to  _be_  with you, Sandor, I loved you so much, I loved how you held and touched me; I  _needed_  you. I…I didn't know the moon tea would fail with too much water but there was not enough-"

Sandor stood and pressed his hand to his forehead. "Seven hells, girl: we've been through this before. I told you why we had needed to wait. But it's well and done now: we're wed and have a pup…with another on its way."

Sansa shook her head tearfully. "But it's not what you wanted…"

"Fucking hells, girl: it  _is_  what I bloody wanted! Why do you think I came for you the night of the Blackwater: to tell you farewell at the point of a knife? I wanted you for  _myself_! I wanted to take you away where  _no one_  would find us, because I knew, I  _knew_  that no one would let me have you!" He was raging at her now. "I thought they would  _kill_  me for being with you! What would have happened then, hm? Who do you think would have protected you then? Do you think they would have let you have my pup?" He snarled angrily. "They might have forced you to drink fouler than moon tea to poison it out of you. They might have pushed you down some stairs; or beaten, or  _raped_  it out of you! And they would not have cared if you had died so long as you did not have  _my_  whelp: the  _Hound_ 's spawn," he finished bitterly. He looked away from her now.

"M-my lords…" she tried to reason desperately, "my lords accepted you."

"Just barely," he almost spat. "And the North was short of lords and Winterfell was full of soldiers, and commons, and wildlings: rough men starving for food and warmth and wenches. Did you never see how they looked at you? Had they known you were taking a big, ugly dog to your bed…seven hells, they'd have lined up with their cocks in hand to fuck you, little bird. Do you think your name protected you from the contempt they would have felt for you for wanting  _me_? Have you learned  _nothing_  of the real world?"

"But…we're safe now…" she tried to assert through her tears. "No one has harmed you; or me."

"Oh, you're still a stupid little bird," he mocked. " _Yet_ , my lady: no one has harmed us  _yet_. If I don't stop these killings…they're like to want my head on a spike." He looked at her now; his anger had turned to a sad helplessness. "And then who will protect you, little bird? You and our babes?" he asked in a tight voice. "Who will protect you if I'm gone?" He dropped the hand he had used to gesture to his side, resigned.

Sansa stared at him, confused and overwhelmed. He had married her despite thinking he would be killed and that she would be punished somehow; and now he feared for her and their children if they were left without him. She wondered if that was why he was distant with Catya. Sansa was not convinced that he was right, that anyone would have murdered him and harmed her just to keep them from each other but Sandor did not doubt it.

_It's the world that's awful._

Mayhaps he was right, but it was not their fault the world could be awful. Why should he resent their daughter, and her, for wanting him?

"Can…can you not love  _and_  protect us, Sandor? Must you be so hard all the time?" she pleaded tiredly. She felt her tears slowly sliding down her cheeks and wondered sometimes how it was that she had any left.

Sandor stood to his full height and his mouth twitched to a slight sneer. "You want me for my strength and because I can fight: it's who I am, little bird, and what I do; it's how I survive and protect you."

She wiped her eyes. "Go then," she whispered hoarsely. "Go train, go fight, go kill…sometimes I cannot help but think it is still what you love best." She turned away from him now, and noticed the fire had gone out. After a moment she thought she heard him open the door and turned back to him suddenly.  _Wait!_

But it was Rose standing in the door; Sandor had already left.  _As I told him to do._ She felt contrite; she had not acted as a lady should; mayhaps even she had been hard this time.

Rose looked concerned. "Are ye well this mornin', m'lady?" she asked.

Sansa forced a wan smiled. "Yes, Rose, I'm fine. But the fire has gone out, and I have got soot in my eyes trying to light it again. Will you help me, please?"

"Aye, m'lady," she replied. But she still looked wary.

….

 _Did I not tells ye? Was the baker not right, then? Rosie herself hear th'dog shoutin' at our lady this mornin', an' seen her tears and bruisin' on 'er wrists. He's already fixin' te off her: can't barely hold hisself back!_  The blacksmith argued in his forge. His outrage made his face even redder than the heat of the coals.

The tanner looked grim.  _What we to do then? We canna let'im do fer our lady but howzit we can do fer him? He's a right deadly warrior, th'best there be, an' him with armor an'steel. We'se jus'tradesmen, we are._

The others who had gathered grumbled and nodded.

The blacksmith smirked knowingly.  _We does th'same them dragons did te them wights,_  he told them, then raised the red hot steel bar he had been working.  _We uses fire._ Then he dropped the piece into the water where it boiled and hissed.

* * *

**AN** : Apologies, I need to take a hiatus from posting to look after family matters. I will return when I can. Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing so far.


	12. Chapter 12

Sandor glowered darkly at the men in the yard. He was in a foul mood and wasn't of a mind to spare anyone.

"Fall into bloody ranks! Are you boys or soldiers? And why hasn't last night's watch reported?" His eyes swept the men gathered, old men and young boys mostly. No wonder he was failing: at this, at everything.

"Blackfish?" he questioned when he appeared with two young soldiers. He recognized one as the youngest Snow.

"We're missing a man, Commander," the Blackfish reported.

"Missing?" Sandor barked. "From the watch? I'll see him flogged for that," he snarled.

"We'll needs find him first," the Blackfish retorted mildly. "He was last seen on the outer wall. We've circled it twice now but no sign of him."

"Probably warming himself on a kitchen wench. The rest of you had better look alive then," Sandor ordered. "Fall in for training; you too Snow, move your arse."

"Yes m'lord," the boy replied dutifully.

Sandor felt a twinge of remorse: the boy was pimply and stammered but was always earnest. "Remind me, boy: which Snow are you?"

"Yfer Snow, m'lord," he replied.

"Is that a wildling name?"

The boy looked sheepish. "Ye'd have t'ask them that named me, m'lord." He took his place in the ranks.

Sandor's mouth twitched. He'd had enough of saying the wrong thing.

"Pair off and take sides: two against two," he bellowed as training began. The Blackfish slipped away.

….

Sansa had spent the morning feeding hens and gathering eggs, rather listlessly since she was still disconsolate following her emotional argument with Sandor. Her heart felt tight with every breath she drew and she wished only to set things right between them. She cringed to think of her betrothal to Joffrey and her marriage to Tyrion: she wanted a happy home for Sandor and her children, not barely-tolerated misery and resentment. She put her hands over her belly and thought of what her great-uncle had told her: that Sandor loved her but needed to get used to being husband and father. Sansa wanted to tell him it was alright, that she would give him all the time he needed and that she loved him.

"Is you feelin' alright, m'lady?"

Sansa turned to see Squirrel watching her carefully.

"Yes, Squirrel, but I did not sleep well. Thank you for your concern."

"It's not jus' me that's concerned, m'lady; the Blackfish says I'm te stay wit' ye untils this killer's caught. M'lord Commander canna stay wit' ye all day likes yer shield no mores, so's ye gets me."

Sansa's first instinct was to protest; there was so very much work to be done and Squirrel was badly needed in the kitchen. But she remembered her promise to her great-uncle not to fight him on the matter and so accepted her guardian.

"Very well, Squirrel, but I would like to visit Catya in the nursery first; then I will accompany you to the kitchen so we can both work there. I see no reason we should both sit around idle in my chambers or the solar." She held out her basket of eggs. "Would you take these please? I will visit the nursery and wait for you in my chambers afterward."

Squirrel hesitated, then took the basket. "Right then, off ye goes, m'lady, but wait fer me or th'Blackfish'll tan my hide fer sure…not that I'd mind," she hooted.

Sansa smiled faintly. "Thank you, Squirrel."

….

The Blackfish had only rejoined the training when two soldiers from the day patrol rode fast into the yard. Everyone turned and waited anxiously.

"Well?" Sandor asked. "Why aren't you with the patrol? Have we another bloody corpse?" he asked gruffly.

"N-no, m'lord. The innkeeper says he needs speak with you, that you asked him to send for you iffen he had somethin' you'd want to hear," he shrugged.

 _News of a man who no longer frequents the inn after the girl's death._  Sandor remembered asking him to send word. Mayhaps they would finally put a stop to the deaths.

"Very well, you can head back out to the winter town; I'll follow once I saddle up," he told them.

"Shouldna we wait to escort you, m'lord? We're supposed to stick together, by your orders."

Sandor nearly growled at his stupidity: did they think him some green boy who'd only joined the ranks?

"I'll accompany the commander," the Blackfish interrupted. "Return to your duties as he's told you."

"Seven hells, Blackfish," Sandor muttered as they rode off, "if the commander of the garrison can't ride to the winter town-"

"There is someone I needs call on," the Blackfish replied. "Sansa was concerned for the baker's widow…and her daughters." He saw Sandor's doubtful look. "We spoke of it in the solar last night, before you returned."

 _Before I fucked her and then fucked everything,_  Sandor thought sourly.

"I'm leaving now," Sandor rasped curtly.

….

The baker's widow seemed to shrink into herself when she first spied him in the doorway but then steeled herself and stepped forward.

"Help'ye, Ser?"

"No," he replied, "I only wanted to be certain that you were all safe, and-"

"We'se all locked up tight, Ser, and well; I thanks ye," she replied somewhat curtly.

The Blackfish could see the woman's daughters looking out at him from beneath the table where they seemed to be playing together with kitchen tools and plates.

"Forgive me if I seem forward, but the killer has been here once…"

"An' won't come again cuz he never has yet," she stated emphatically for once. "An' I knows to use a knife, Ser…n-now that I'se been trained-like…at th'castle," she stammered.

The Blackfish nodded now. "I'll leave you then," he told her. "Pretty girls," he added, "they look like their mother."

The widow eyes turned round and her mouth opened, but she did not reply.

"Good day," he said and turned to leave.

….

Sandor tied up Stranger outside the inn and walked in resolutely, hoping to finally have some clue to help catch the killer.

_It will be well between us if I can catch him; she will see why I had to be so hard._

He walked right up to where the innkeeper was wiping plates and horns for ale on a table.

"You had word for me?" he asked gruffly.

The innkeeper was silent, and would not look up; then he shook his head.

"No?" Why in seven hells did you send for me then?" he rasped angrily.

"Forgives me, m'lord," he barely spoke above a whisper, "they mades me do it, send fer ye, I means. Took m'wife away, they did."

"What-" Sandor began. Then he realized that they were not alone. Men, commons from the winter town, were slinking out from dark corners and behind doors.  _A trap, and I walked into it._  One had a dull-looking sword and looked to have little idea how to use it. Another, and then a third, held sticks of wood with metal spikes driven into them. Yet a fourth had an axe.

Sandor put his hand on his sword pommel with a growl.

"Ye'll not be wantin' te do that,  _dog_ ," came a threatening voice behind him, the voice of the blacksmith.

"Don'a burn down my inn!" the innkeeper cried plaintively.

When Sandor turned, he saw that the smith and the tanner had torches as well as spiked clubs. He instinctively reeled back a step, his eyes widening.

"It's not yer inn we'll be puttin' to th'torch," the smith spat.

Seeing Sandor falter, the commons stepped towards him.

….

Sansa sat in her chambers with the great doors open, waiting for Squirrel to come find her. She ran her hand idly over the furs of the bed and thought of Sandor.

_I'm sorry, my love. Please forgive me._

She turned her head when she heard someone approach but instead of Squirrel she saw a young soldier approach tentatively.

"Forgive me, m'lady. I'se been sent to find th'lord commander," he bowed his head respectfully. She noticed he was small and had pointed features and an unfortunate spotted complexion.

"Is he not in the yard?" Sansa asked him. "Or the armoury?"

"No, m'lady; an'there be trouble up on the walls," he told her reluctantly.

 _I am the Lady of Winterfell. I have my father's responsibilities. I can be strong and capable, as Sandor has taught me._  She remembered the pride in his eyes as she defended herself in training. _I will make him proud of me again._

She stood up and turned to the young soldier. "I will accompany you, as your liege lady," she told him confidently.

"Y-yes, m'lady," he bowed his head again and lead the way.

….

"What's the meaning of this?" Sandor demanded of the men surrounding him in the inn. "I'm Lord Commander of the garrison at Winterfell!"

The blacksmith sneered contemptuously. "Yer a murderin' dog's what you is. Thought ye coulds fool us'n 'cause yer a lord now, havin' forced yerself on our lady?" He spat. "She'll be well rids of ye', we'll see te that. Now throw down yer sword, dog: yer done here."

_Oh brothers, my brothers, my days here are done…_

"Are you all mad? I've murdered no one; I'm bloody well trying to catch the man!" As he shouted, he eyed the torches they held, the torches that were coming closer to him.

The tanner nodded and pointed to him with his torch. "Well, so's we an' we figures we has. So ye needs drop yer sword an' not fights us; ye canna do fer us all," he told him, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Sandor drew his sword now. "I buggering can, and I will if you leave me no choice," he rasped harshly. "You are mad; why should I murder my lady's people? I fought for the Starks and for the North, damn you; where were any of you when I was bleeding from fighting the Boltons and Freys and freezing from fighting the Others?"

"Ye kill't so's we'd thinks there's a killer loose, so's no one'd suspect ye when our lady's been done fer…an' th'wee lord so ye's can have it all fer yerself. Well ye'll not rules us, dog!"

Sandor nearly laughed. He had never desired to be a lord; had only accepted it to be a worthy husband to the little bird. He thought then that it would be Sansa's noble lords who would kill him for having the audacity and presumption to marry their lady. He had not expected the commons to like him; but he had never expected them to be the ones with the stones to try to kill him either.

_But what does it matter, for all men must die…_

But it did matter; he could not die now. He had a wife and children and responsibilities to them and to Winterfell. Who would protect Sansa if he were gone? And what would happen to their pups? What would they do to their babes if they thought their father a murderer? And they thought to use fire?  _Let them try. I have survived worse than them: Gregor and Dondarrion had tried fire, other men had tried swords, and I'm still here_. Gnats, that's what they were. He would needs kill them, or die in the effort.

He did not want to die, as he once had; he wanted to see Sansa again. He did not want the last time they were together to have been that morning, when she had turned her back to him after saying that he loved killing best; as though he could possibly love anything in the world more than he loved her. It had torn his heart open to see her so disappointed with him and wishing him gone from her. He never would have left her at that moment if he had thought it could be forever.

"Well," he barked, "which one of you sorry gnats wants to die first?"

"Then I'll take whoever wants to be second," a smokey voice came from the door.

….

When Rose returned to Winterfell from visiting her father in the winter town, she went straight to Sansa in her chambers only to find an irritated Squirrel waiting instead.

"Where she be then?" the wildling woman asked.

"Is she not in the great hall, or with the Lady Catya in the nursery?"

"Would I be here if she were, girl? I'm supposed to sheild'er 'til they catches th'murderer; an' she was to wait fer me here."

"M'lady said she'd be here an' she isn't?" Rose asked uncertainly.

Squirrel looked at her as though she were an idiot; then she looked concerned.

"We needs te start lookin' girl."

….

""Ye's can stay outta this, Blackfish," the smith warned him when he saw Brynden Tully standing in the open door of the inn with his hand on his sword hilt. "Yer not one of us neither."

"No, I am your liege lady's great-uncle, and that is her lord husband you are threatening. Do none of you know it is death to take up arms against your lord?" He drew his sword as he spoke.

"I tol' ye's this was a mistake, I did; it's death fer us all now. Ye canna fight the boths of 'em," the innkeeper moaned.

"I says we can," the smith snarled, "we'se more than them." He turned to the tanner for approval and instead saw him looking reluctant.

"He'd be our lady's family, then," he mumbled, "I can no attack th'man."

"But you would attack your lady's lord?" The Blackfish challenged.

"He's th'Hound," the tanner said stubbornly, "an' a killer besides".

_When you leave us, I pray you wear the protection that our robes will afford you: you will face many foes once you are out in the world again, brother: you are charged with many crimes, and they'll know you on sight for the Hound, though he is no more._

"Look at me!" Sandor raged " _Look at me!_  Do you truly think I could have slunk about doing murder without being seen? Do you think me capable of hiding myself? The killer has to be able to go about unnoticed, that is why we believe he is from…from…" He looked at the Blackfish, wide-eyed with stunned realization.

" _Seven fucking hells_ …he's a soldier," he rasped.

"Clegane?"

"Whut's this yer sayin'?" the smith asked suspiciously.

"A soldier. Only a soldier could have gone about at night unnoticed, or have villagers open their doors for him without concern," he explained. "And the wench knew him. Buggering hells, we should have been looking at our own men."

The Blackfish stared back at him. "Gods," he breathed, "you may be right."

"Sansa," Sandor rasped now, and looked at the Blackfish ominously. "He's at the castle."

….

Once Sansa reached the top of the outer wall, she had a sweeping view of the snow-covered lands beyond. This side of the castle looked out to the Wolfswood, and she was momentarily overwhelmed at the stark and desolate beauty of her father's holdings.  _The North: Stark lands, our lands._  The wind blew cold and she saw there was no one else up on the wall. She turned to the young soldier.

"I do not understand," she began, "what trouble is there?"

She caught her breath sharply now to see how his young face had turned hard and how much hate was in his pale eyes.

"Yours," he growled, and brought the hilt of his dagger down hard across her temple.

The boy's hateful face and the endless view of snow and woods tilted and spun before Sansa as she fell.

….

_Finally: revenge. You're mine._

* * *

_  
_AN: thank you to those who offered good wishes; I'm afraid updating may still be slow; thank you for hanging in.


	13. Chapter 13

"Kit! Kit!" Rose ran breathless into the yard of Winterfell.

A group of soldiers guffawed. "Oooh, it's Kit, is it, luv'ly? I can keep you warmer than'im," one called out.

"Mind yerself," Kit cut him off sharply. "What's wrong then, Rosie?"

"M'lady's missin'. We've not found'er anywheres in the keep," she panted, near tears.

Kit looked at her levelly and then turned back to his fellow soldiers. "You heard'er then: Lady Clegane's missin'. We're to go lookin' in twos: keep, yards, kitchen, everywhere there is te look, we'll look."

"An' who puts yerself in the commander's boots?" one asked with a sneer.

"I'd not wanna be in yer boots iffen he returns and his lady's missin' or harmed," Kit growled. It had the necessary effects of sending men in twos to all corners of Winterfell with speed and determination. "You eight'll take the inner wall; the rest'o ye comes wit'me to the outer wall. Rosie," he turned to her and grasped her arm, "ye waits here 'til us or the commander's comes back."

Rose nodded and begged him: "Find m'lady, Kit; bring'er back safe."

….

"We needs return to Winterfell immediately," Sandor told the Blackfish.

"No ye's don't now," the smith spoke up, "we're not done wit'ye-"

"Didna' ye hear'im?" the tanner interrupted, incredulous, "Our lady o'Winterfell coulda be in danger."

"You, tanner: can you use a sword? Never mind, bring your club; all of you come and bring your weapons. Leave the torches," Sandor added with a growl.

"Us'n? Follow ye te th'castle? "

"Aye, we don't know who he is: we need men we can trust. We're going to Winterfell to find this killer."

Sandor hurried out of the inn and mounted Stranger quickly. As soon as he turned him to the direction of Winterfell, he dug his heels into his sides. "Run like all sevens hells are after us, boy."

….

Sansa blinked and shook her head, trying to clear it. The blow had winded her and sent her to her hands and knees in the snow atop the walls. She saw spots of blood in the white beneath her hands. As she tried to straighten and stand, someone jerked her wrists together and began binding them with hempen rope. She looked dizzily at the young soldier.

"What- what are you doing?" she asked him quaveringly.

"What my family should have done years ago: I'm finishing off you Starks," he sneered. "High and mighty: think you're too good for us, a noble family, and then you bed down with a  _dog_  and make him a lord."

"My lord will punish you for this…he'll  _kill_  you," she warned him.

The boy finished tying off her hands and then grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled hard to make her look at him.

"Your lord's not coming back: those commons think he's their killer," he chuckled darkly, "and will do for him in their brutish, clumsy way: like to be a very slow and painful death which is no more than you both deserve," he snarled.

Sansa's mind reeled. Was Sandor in danger? Had he been right all along? They were killing him and punishing her for being together. She also realized that the boy's speech was more refined now; he was not who he had seemed.

"Wolves and dogs, that is all you are: wild and low," the boy continued. "Well, there's only one use for a wild bitch," he hissed as he pushed her forward again on all fours.

Sansa's mind instantly understood his lustful intent.

_They might have raped it out of you; and they would not have cared if you had died so long as you did not have my whelp._

"No!" Sansa pleaded. "Don't hurt my  _baby_!"

He pulled her hair again. "A baby, is it? I'd call it a cur, a dog's whelp. Know that neither of you will live much longer, though I will let you look upon it…right after I cut if from your belly."

_No, not our son. Sandor!_  She remembered his words to her now, to let herself be heard across the Seven Kingdoms. She screamed with all her might.

"Shut it! Shut your mouth or I'll give you something to fill it," he taunted, grabbing and pushing up her gown. Though he still had his hand wrapped around her hair, as soon as Sansa felt his hands fumbling at her body, she tried to crawl away, despite her bound wrists. He pulled her back, hard, but then let go of her hip. From his impatient grumbling and gasps for breath, she realized he was pulling at his lacings. She sat back and with all her might she banged her head into his face.

"Ow! That's it," he gasped and grabbed her around her neck as she lurched away from him again. "You'll be better dead anyway; I'll have you while you bleed," he snarled as he reached for his dagger.

"Halt!"

The young soldier Sansa recognized as Kit walked slowly ahead of small group of soldiers, all with swords drawn.

The boy looked up suddenly and put his dagger under her chin.

"You're too late, Snow; your Lady of Winterfell is done for."

….

Sandor rode hard over the drawbridge and into the yard of Winterfell and reined Stranger so fiercely he almost reared.

Rose ran up to him. "M'lord!"

"Where is she, where's Sansa?" He barked when he saw the fear in her eyes.

"Th'outside wall, m'lord; they heards her screamin'. Th'soldiers is there now," she pointed as she spoke.

Sandor had already turned and ran. Regardless on the snow on the stairs up to the wall he took them two and three at a time, breathing heavily.  _Sansa. Sansa. Sansa._

….

Sansa held herself very still on her knees, fearful that any movement would make the boy cut her throat.

"Drop your swords!" the boy shouted, then pulled Sansa's hair again. "You tell them, you're the  _lady_ : make them obey me."

"An'who're you to tell th'Lady o' Winterfell what te do?" Kit challenged him. "Yer a Snow like me, Yfer."

" _Yfer_ ," the Boy jeered, " _iffen ye_  commons learned your letters, you would know that those same letters in Yfer spell my real name, my real family name: I'm no low-born Snow like you; I am a  _Frey_  of the Twins."

Sansa caught her breath again in bewilderment but the soldiers did not move, nor did they react.

"I don't care iffen yer one of th'queen's dragons," Kit told him steadily as he took another step forward, "unhand the lady and throw down yer weapon."

From behind Kit, the sounds of clanking armour and steel from men running could be heard on the wall and when Sansa saw who was approaching, she let out her breath in relief.  _I will see him one more time; I will tell him I love him._

"Sandor," she almost whispered when she saw him coming towards her.

….

Squirrel and Osha found Rose in the yard, staring up at the walls with others though they could not see.

"Ye'll not get nothin' done starin' frum down'ere, girl: where is they?" Osha asked her.

"Th'outer wall," she pointed, "Lord Clegane wen'up that ways."

"Then we'll go th'other way. C'mon Squirr'l," she called; then she looked back at Rose. "Not all wimmens' made fer waitin'."

….

Sandor stopped short once he reached the side of the boy Kit and looked upon the rat-faced boy holding his dagger to Sansa's throat. He realized that all his strength would not help her now; just one wrong word or move could cost his little bird her life. He couldn't look at her, not now; if he did he'd act rashly and fail her. He turned his attention to the boy with the knife.

"What do you want, boy? You've nothing to gain from killing your lady," he rasped, "and you'll not escape if you do. Let her go now."

"I've everything to gain, just from letting you watch your lady die as you realize you were helpless all along to me, to my revenge. And you'll be just a low dog again," he laughed nervously. "Those commons should have killed you; even they won't have you for a lord without your lady wife."

"Fuck being a lord, I've never cared for that; and what revenge is it that you want: how have we wronged you? Who are you, boy?" Sandor took a step closer.

The boy jerked Sansa's neck. "Tell him, tell him who I am," he ordered her.

Sansa looked up to Sandor with wide and serious blue eyes. "He's a Frey, of the Twins," she told him.

Sandor looked perplexed. "Impossible. You can't-"

"You thought us all dead; or exiled. Well, you forgot about me.  _Everyone_  forgot about me," he looked hard and petulant all at once. "I was warded in Braavos but they threw me out when they heard the lies about Aunt Roslin's wedding. They said I was disgraced and would bring dishonor on them. My mother's family said the same: they wouldn't take in their own  _blood_  because of the lies. The Freys are a noble family: we keep our word…unlike the  _Starks_ ," he hissed as he pulled Sansa's hair again, "who consort with direwolves and dogs and wildlings and bastards. You're not fit to be nobles or lords or wardens:  _I_  proved that. You couldn't even protect your own: the fearsome Hound," he jeered.

"Then kill me instead," Sandor rasped as he took another step forward with his hands turned out, empty of weapons. "You want to prove how strong and right you are, boy, then kill the Hound; there's those who would thank you for it."

Sansa shook her head. "No," she whispered, "please."

"But you kill a high-born lady with child, boy," Sandor continued in a low voice, "and you'll not restore your family's honour; no, you'll have them all thinking they were right-"

" _I hate you_!" The boy shrieked now. "I'll have my revenge! She's a Stark and I'll kill her! I'll cut her throat and open her belly and take her over the wall with me! You'll not find our corpses until Spring; just like the soldier I killed last night!"

When he bent to pull Sansa to her feet, an arrow whizzed by his head and hit the snow covered merlon next to him before falling to the ground with a splintered shaft.

"Stay back!" Sandor shouted to Osha and Squirrel, who had docked another arrow to aim at the boy. "He's armed!"

Sansa looked down at the broken arrow in the snow before her and knew it was her only chance.  _Sandor taught me: I know what to do._  Despite her bound wrists, she took the shaft of the arrow in both hands and rounded on the boy as she stood. Though he jerked back when she turned, causing her to miss spearing his throat, she still managed to drag the sharp iron tip of the bodkin point across his face and eye. Blood spurt out at her and the boy screamed in pain, and he slapped his free hand over his wounded eye.

" _You wolf-bitch!"_

He shrieked again as he brought his dagger down on her but she blocked his arm by raising her hands with the arrow shaft held lengthwise. Once, twice he brought the point of his blade within a hair's breadth of her face. Sansa gave a high-pitched grunt with each block and feared her strength would fail her with another strong blow from the boy when she was abruptly pulled back just as two soldiers rushed to push and pin the boy against the wall behind him.

Sansa was whirled around and suddenly her vision was filled with Sandor's face: grim and worried and relieved all at once as his grey eyes searched hers. "Gods, little bird-" he rasped desperately as he touched her face and patted her body, feeling anywhere looking for injury. His lips brushed her forehead where she was bleeding from the boy's first blow to her head. He pulled her to him and heaved a great sigh of relief. "Little bird," he repeated.

"M'lady," someone said and Sansa gasped to look and see another dagger held out to her. "Your hands, m'lady," the soldier prompted as she recognized the boy Kit again.

Sansa looked down and held out her hands to him, astonished to see how they trembled. "Yer all right now, m'lady," the boy told her calmly as he sawed once at the rope and freed her wrists, "we's got'im. Yer lord'll take care o'ye."

Two soldiers held the Frey boy against the wall while another held his sword to his throat. Squirrel and Osha, who had her spear, had joined them in keeping guard on the prisoner.

"Ye wants we throw'im over, m'lord?" Squirrel asked. "I'll open his throat the same ways yer lady opened his eye."

"No!" a voice called, and Sansa recognized Rickon and the Blackfish on the wall now.

"Might be the lit'l lord'll let his direwolf have at ye," Osha taunted him. "That beast'll rip ye te bloody pieces."

"You're all savages!" the Frey spat.

"No, Sandor," Sansa said shakily, "don't let them kill him here. It must be justice…" she paused to gather herself. "It must be like in my father's day."

"Our way is the old way, brother," Rickon told him seriously. "The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword."

Sandor looked malevolently at the murderer though he still held Sansa to him. "I'll pass his sentence and swing my sword," he snarled as he moved his hand to his sword hilt, "right bloody  _now_."

"But I'm lord of Winterfell," Rickon told him, "and Sansa is acting warden. It must be one of us."

"You haven't the  _balls_ ," the boy hurled at him.

Osha pointed her spear under his chin. "I would'na be talkin' about not havin' any balls, boy: might be we'll get ideas like."

Sansa gripped Sandor's shoulder tightly as she stood tall and raised her head. "Put the prisoner in a cell," she ordered, "and have the maester tend to his wounds. We will hear him in the Great Hall, and pass his sentence then." Her voice quavered slightly but she was obeyed immediately with murmuring of 'm'lady' from the soldiers and shouted orders that followed. The Frey boy gave her one last murderous look despite his weasel-ly, blood-stained face and ruined eye as the soldiers led him off the wall and down the stairs.

She was shaking uncontrollably now and felt her knees weaken and wobble. Sandor scooped her up in his arms and held her close. "The maester will tend you first, little bird. I'll see you and our pup safe before he wastes his skills on that rat-faced murderer," he assured her.

She looked up at him searchingly now. "I did as you taught me, Sandor," she told him earnestly, 'I- I defended myself…or I tried," she trailed off.  _Let him be proud of me, let him still love me._

Sandor looked at her curiously and then his mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile full of pride.

"Aye, little bird," he rasped gently, "you did as I taught you: it was well done, my lady."

He kissed her forehead again, and carried her towards the stairs.

….

_They's got 'im! Th'killer's in chains! Our Lady's saved!_  The soldiers and people of Winterfell exclaimed in the yard as word came down from the wall that all were alive and the murderer finally caught.

The smith and tanner looked ominously at each other.

_We'se dead men,_  the tanner moaned.


	14. Chapter 14

Kit was the first to emerge from the stairs to the outer wall, followed by Squirrel and Osha who led the Frey boy and the rest of the soldiers who had followed in the search for Sansa.

Those assembled were quietly confounded to see them leading a young man with a small build and weak features; they had expected a monster.

"Is that'im, then?" another soldier asked uncertainly. "It was Yfer all this time?"

"Aye, t'was; says he's a Frey and tried t'do fer our lady. She stopped'im good too; that'd be her work ye sees bleedin' down his ugly face," Kit sneered at the boy as he bragged of Sansa. "She's a right brave one, our lady," he told them.

Rose stepped forward. "Is she harmed, Kit?"

He inclined his head. "Don' think so, but Lord Clegane's bringin' her down hisself; he'll see'er t'rights. Called fer th'maester a'ready."

Rose stared past him now at the Frey boy. "H-he kill't my Flyn," she said quietly.

"And I'd do it again," the boy told her. "I should have taken my time and killed you all," he hissed, "even your brats!"

Rose rushed at him instinctively but Kit caught her in time.

" _Fuck off_!" Rose blurted breathlessly at the Frey as she strained against Kit's hold.

The soldiers smirked and laughed. "Don'a ye fear no mores, girl; we're fuckin' this one off to a cold cell until he's put te death. Com'on then ye wee weasel," They pushed and dragged him away now.

Rose watched him be led away as tears welled up in her eyes. Kit leaned in closer to reassure her.

"It's alright now, Rosie; he can'a hurt ye no more…"

"Flyn," she whispered and stifled a sob, "died a 'cause o'that boy." She covered her mouth with her hand now and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw Kit looking steadily at her with concern and pity. She pulled away. "I'm te m'lady's chamber now, t'ready it fer her an' th'maester," she told him before turning and running towards the keep.

….

"Easy now," the Blackfish murmured, "we're almost there." The old knight stepped off the stairs and turned as Sandor followed with Sansa in his arms. The crowd that had gathered in the yard of Winterfell moved forward instinctively.

"Make way," the Blackfish instructed. "Lady Clegane is unharmed but we would have her seen to by the maester," he told them.

"May th'old gods keep ye, m'lady!" one called, and was followed by a chorus of muttered "ayes"..

Sansa turned a wan and worried face to the people assembled and tried to stir in Sandor's arms.

"Please, Sandor; let me walk: I am their lady-"

"You are my lady wife," he rasped firmly, "and you will walk then the maester says you can walk."

Sansa put her head back down against his shoulder, comforted that he was holding her, and reached her arms further around his neck. Sandor strode resolutely past the soldiers and commons, including the hapless villagers who had threatened him. The smith and tanner and even the innkeeper watched him pass with Sansa and then turned to look at each other. Finally when the Blackfish passed them to follow Sandor, they called to him tentatively.

"Ser? Blackfish, Ser?"

The old soldier turned to look at them.

"What's te become of us'n, then?" the innkeeper asked dolefully, clutching his hands together.

The Blackfish shook his head. "I truly don't know; I think Lord Clegane must decide. Best you all stay here," he advised them as he walked away.

….

The sky had clouded over and darkened early and the snow had begun falling steadily. Sandor closed all the shutters in their chamber as Rose propped up pillows behind Sansa in bed and tucked furs around her to keep her warm. Men had already been dispatched to the woods to bring more firewood for their lady when the maester had ordered her to stay abed for a fortnight.

"It pleases me to tell you that you have suffered no injuries save that to your head, my lady; but in your condition," he told her delicately, "I would advise bed rest until such time that we may be certain that your child has not suffered any ill effects from the strain of your difficult ordeal."

Sansa had tried to object. "But Maester, a fortnight is a very long time when there is so much to be done-"

"A fortnight it will be," Sandor pronounced with finality. "The prisoner will be tended and young Lord Rickon can sit the high seat with the Blackfish and yourself as his counsel until my lady has fully recovered," he instructed the maester.

"Very good, my lord. I will see to the wretched boy now," he bowed as he took his leave, followed by Rose.

"Maester," Sansa called after him, "please see that he lives. I will not have any saying he was slain in a cell in Winterfell."

"I will see to it, my lady."

Sandor looked at her. "What matter if he lives, little bird: who will care if he dies down there?"

"I will," she replied firmly, and then softened. "Even as a prisoner, Sandor, he is still my responsibility; and he ate and slept here as a soldier so it is not a burden to us to keep feeding him and to keep him alive until…until I needs decide his fate."

"He has already decided his own fate, little bird," Sandor rasped. "You are the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North and it is death to threaten or harm you. The Blackfish and I will handle him; you just rest and try to forget him."

"I cannot, Sandor. It is as Rickon told you: our way is the old way. I must hear his final words, and mete out justice myself."

"Will you swing the sword then, little bird?" Sandor asked her cautiously.

Sansa paused to put her hand on her belly now, then turned her eyes up to Sandor and spoke resolutely: "I will, if you will teach me, Sandor."

Sandor reached to put his hand over hers and hesitated and so Sansa put her hand out to him.

"Please, will you sit with me?" she asked softly.

Sandor turned to drag over the small stool his wife sat on when having her hair brushed, and bent and folder himself to sit on it next to the bed. His knees and elbows protruded at odd angles as he dwarfed the spindly seat but he settled next to Sansa as best he could and let her take his large and calloused hand between her two slender ones.

Sandor cleared his throat. "Might be I can teach you, little bird, only…I don't want you to have to do this."

Sansa leaned towards him as she spoke: "Sandor, you have made so many sacrifices to bring me home to Winterfell and to make our life together: how can I possibly shrink from my duties when you have taken on so many, and at great risk to yourself?" She squeezed his hand tighter. "You were right, Sandor: there are still those who mean us harm; and I am  _so_  sorry for the things I said this morning. Protecting us  _is_  how you love us; I should have seen that, and never, ever doubted you, Sandor. You have never given me reason, not once, to think that you do not love us. Mayhaps I still am a stupid little bird-"

She stopped abruptly when Sandor moved to the bed to take her in his arms and hold her to him.

"You were a brave little bird, to turn on him and save yourself," he rasped closely and she heard the emotion in his voice. "Seven hells, I thought I would lose you to that boy and his vengeance," his lips brushed her face and sank into her hair as he tightened his arms around her. "I failed you, I came too late; but you did as I taught you and that will have to be enough for me." Sansa thought she heard him sniffling and felt close to overwrought herself.

"I love you, Sandor," she nearly sobbed, "and you have never failed me, no matter what you think about King's Landing; only, please don't walk away from me again, even if I tell you to."

"I couldn't," he murmured to her. "I could never leave you, Sansa: I am nothing without you-"

"Don't say that-" she pleaded softly as she leaned back to look up at him and take his face in her hands.

But he shook his head firmly. "There is nothing and no one I could ever want, and no place I could ever want to be but with you, little bird. I am trying to be the man you want; I will keep trying," he promised.

"Oh, my love: you  _are_  the man I want…it's the world that is awful sometimes, and it is always you who must needs face it for me; but I will stand with you now and we will brave it together. Will that not be better? We will share the burdens and the joys of our life together; you needs not carry it all yourself anymore, I promise."

Sandor bowed his head and gently placed his hand on her belly. "I will always protect you and our children, little bird, and think it an honour, not a burden." He took a deep breath now. "I would die for you, little bird…and I think I would die without you."

"No, Sandor, you mustn't," she implored him, "you must see to our children if anything…if anything were to happen to me." She clutched at his shoulder and arm and took his hands in hers again. "Promise me; promise me that you will stay with them."

Sandor looked at her warily, reluctant to make such a promise for fear it would come to pass if he did and he would needs keep his word and live without her. But she was so beautiful, so vulnerable, and she was looking at him so desperately that he could deny her nothing. "I promise, little bird," he whispered hoarsely and raised her hands to kiss them. "I promise."

Sansa nodded and wiped away her tears. "I'm tired, Sandor. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

"Aye, little bird: I'll stay with you as long as you like," he rasped gently.

….

It was later when the Blackfish came to speak with him. Sandor was still balanced on the spindly stool next to the bed as he held Sansa's hand and watched her as she slept. She had stirred and come awake with a start earlier from bad dreams and he had wanted to stay with her.

The Blackfish approached and spoke quietly. "I will dine in the hall with Rickon tonight; it will be better if they see some of us there so that they do not worry or talk. The maester will join us as well. I would not ask you to leave her, but I will ask that you eat something, Clegane. The murderer is in a cell but there is still work at Winterfell, for all of us," he looked towards a sleeping Sansa as he finished. "Is she well?"

"I think so," Sandor rasped. "She's…she's been through much the same before, though she weren't with child then and she never did fight back," he said with some admiration.

"You taught her well, Clegane; you taught her to defend herself against danger and she did," he assured him.

Sandor turned hard eyes to his wife's great-uncle. "Do you think I wanted to be right that she'd need to know to defend herself?" He shook his head slowly. "I wanted nothing more than to be wrong, to never see her harmed again." He turned back to Sansa. "Would she have been safer married to another man? A real lord?"

"Not likely," the Blackfish told him seriously, "not safe from a Frey anyway, or mayhaps a Lannsiter or Bolton loyalist, or an enemy of the queen…or of Arya's. What is it she would say?  _V_ _alar morghulis_. Those who would harm Sansa would do so because she is a Stark, and the Lady of Winterfell." Brynden Tully walked over to rest his hand on Sandor's shoulder. "You are her best protection from them, Clegane; but more than that you make her happy and that is what she deserves most after all she has been through." He squeezed his grip now. "Don't deny her that, Clegane; don't deny yourself either."

Sandor looked at the man again before gazing once more at Sansa. "No," he rasped quietly, "I won't."

"But," the Blackfish spoke again, "those who would harm you are the reason I came. Those villagers…from this morning; they're waiting to hear their fate."

Sandor snorted mirthlessly. "Did you put them in cells?" he asked gruffly.

"I brought them to the solar. I thought it best you decide what happens to them, though Rickon and I can hear them in the great hall, if you would not be bothered."

Sandor hesitated but then Rose entered quietly with a tray laden with dishes and a towel folded over her arm. Sandor nodded to her.

"Stay with her now. Let her sleep. If she wakes, tell her I'll return soon." He bent over now to brush strands of her coppery hair from her forehead and to press a soft kiss there.

"Aye, m'lord," Rose answered respectfully.

"Let's go," Sandor said to the Blackfish.

….

_Cold an' dark an' not even a place te sit,_  the blacksmith remarked as he looked around the cavernous solar.

_Them Boltons looted'n'burned everythings,_  the tanner reminded him,  _in th'town and th'castle._

The innkeeper lost his patience.  _D'ye think we be guests here then? We'll be right lucky iffen we gets straw in our cells and sumptin' t'eat afores we'se put te death! I tol' ye's it weren't him but ye none o'ye's'd listen. We was Northmen,_  he intoned proudly,  _now we'se traitors._


	15. Chapter 15

"Sandor?"

Rose turned from where she was looking out the window and hurried to Sansa's bedside.

"M'lord Clegane says te tell ye he'll be back soon, m'lady: he's about bus'ness wit' Ser Blackfish.

"Oh," Sansa replied for want of anything better to say. She wanted Sandor with her but would not trouble him if he were busy now. She would wait for him to return. She looked at her maid now. "H-how are you feeling, Rose. It must be hard for you. The young man is caught, but that does not bring your husband back to you," she told her gently.

Rose pursed her lips and shook her head. "No, m'lady, it don't. And iffen ye'll forgive me, it's seems a waste to hav'im gone a caus'o that boy: he's no bigger'n me, it seems, an' younger."

Sansa took her hand to hold. "I know, Rose; he appears to be no older than myself or my sister Arya, and yet he has brought so much death and suffering with him. I fear his youth and position in the garrison is what made the people here trust him. Please know that I am sorry for that, that he was part of our…our family here. We welcomed everyone who wanted to work and to rebuild the North; and now I fear Lord Clegane and I were not adequately vigilant."

"S'not yer faults, m'lady: I – I thought them Freys were all dead, either by the Northmen or by the queen's men," she told her. "Everyones thought so, fer sure, m'lady."

"As did I, Rose: even those taken prisoner were condemned for their part in the Boltons' treason against the King of the North, and for their fealty to the Lannisters and, of course, for having broken guest rights beneath their own roof," Sansa finished solemnly.

"They condemned theyselves, m'lady: all from th'gods te th'meanest commons damns them that kills they own guests. Th'Twins an' them Freys be no more fer good reason."

….

When Sandor stepped into the solar, the villagers who had threatened him sank down on their knees.

"M'lord," they all mumbled humbly with downcast eyes.

"Seven hells,  _get up_ ," he rasped harshly, "I'm not the queen."

"Might we ask iffen m'lady is well, m'lord," the innkeeper questioned timidly.

Sandor's hard expression lessened when he looked at the innkeeper. "She's well enough, considering…and your wife? Did they let her go?"

"Aye, m'lord; they says they would. Thank'ye fer askin'," the man spoke to his boots.

"Go to her, then," he rasped, standing aside so the man could pass out the door. "Go on," he prompted again when the man only stared at him. "I know they forced you to take part in their…plan."

"I knowed it weren't ye, m'lord: I tried te tells 'em. I'se seen how ye loves yer lady an' tried te find th'killer," he apologized. "I were scared fer my missus, is all, m'lord."

"Seems you were all scared, scared of a killer; and you thought he was me: why? What had I done to you?"

The blacksmith swallowed hard and stammered his reply. "It- it were the only thing that mades sense; we thought we knews th'others all and never thought it were no soldier neither…m'lord. And there's them here at th'castle who's heard ye and our lady fightin's…or so they thoughts. We was afearin' fer her and th'wee lord Stark. And you's the Hound an'all-"

"Lord Clegane had not been the Hound since he left service with the Lannisters; further he was sword shield to your lady and brought her safely home to Winterfell and lead the garrison against all our enemies," the Blackfish recounted to them. "And he is her lord husband, by choice: theirs was not an arranged betrothal not a wedding of alliances. You wrong him greatly to think he could mean or cause her harm; and myself to think that I would stand by and permit such a thing. The Lady of Winterfell is my great-niece and as beloved to me as her lady mother was."

"May th'gods give her rest," the innkeeper mumbled.

"You actions are treasonable and punishable by death," the Blackfish intoned darkly.

"Punishable by the Lady of Winterfell: it's my lady who would needs condemn you and take your heads…and I won't have her do it, I tell you: she has enough to endure." He paused to gather himself. "She wanted to be done with death," Sandor rasped wearily. "How is it I'll be able to tell her about you lot: her own people trying to do for her husband because I'm not a Northman."

The men looked up now. "We'se powerful sorry fer that, m'lord," the tanner told him.

"I chased a murderer like a dog chases its tail: running in circles and getting nowhere, only to have him be one of my own men and to near-murder my lady in her family's castle where she should have been safe," he intoned bitterly. "I misjudged who was responsible, and left a murderer running among you; might be you have right to be angry with me, though not to come at me with bloody torches and clubs!"

"Mercy, m'lord: send us'n te th'wall, and we'll be loyal te our lady's kin and commander," the smith pleaded.

"No," Sandor replied curtly, "we need you here; we need to you rebuild the North. You will go back to your homes and your lives… and you will each give one day out of every fortnight to work at the rebuilding the castle, in whatever capacity the foremen here require. And you will be the most fiercely loyal commons to my lady and her family. Should any of you ever breathe word of this, I will see you hung from the outside wall and your families exiled for good measure."

The men gathered breathed great sighs of relief. "Yer as merciful and just as ye'are brave, m'lord; we'll not be forgettin' this," the tanner told him.

Sandor leaned in closely: "Neither will I," he rasped soundly. The men all gulped in silence. "Now get out of my sight," he sneered, "until you come back to work."

As the men filed out humble and chastened, the Blackfish approached Sandor. "Are you sure you have done the right thing, Clegane? If the rest of the villagers or soldiers should find out, they may think you weak."

Sandor chuckled darkly. "Those villagers damn near pissed themselves just now; they won't tell anyone, especially if they think it will affect their families." He spoke resolutely now: "Sansa must never know."

"No," the Blackfish agreed, "she'd be heartbroken."

….

Sandor and the Blackfish let several days pass before agreeing to answer Sansa's questions about the Frey boy. The Tully knight had needed that much time to get the boy's story from him and piece together what he remembered from his years in the Riverlands.

"And what it is we know now?' she asked as she sat up in bed beneath furs. The Blackfish stood at her side with the maester while Sandor sat with Rickon on his bench near the door of their chamber.

"Bradamar Frey is the youngest son of Symond Frey, his father Walder's coin counter and spymaster. You will remember he and his siblings Jared and Rheagar Frey came with him to White Harbor to bring Lord Manderly the bones of his son Wendel, murdered at the Twins with your mother and brother"

"The King in the North," Rickon recited solemnly.

"Yes, Rickon," Sansa smile sadly, "the King in the North. Please continue," she asked her great-uncle.

"His mother was a noblewoman from Braavos, and Bradamar was warded to a wealthy Braavosi merchant as a boy. Once news of the murders at Edmure's wedding to Roslin were known, he was send back to his mother's family who hid him with servants until he could be sent back to Westeros. Seems they were ashamed to be associated with the Freys," Sansa's great-uncle told her archly. The Frey's violation of guest rights had eradicated what little respect they held as nobles in Westeros; their patriarch Walder Frey had a miserly and duplicitous reputation, showing little loyalty or fealty to other houses while lamenting the lack of respect he received for himself and his house.

"When Symond and his wife stayed with Lord Manderly, Bradamar was put on ship to White Harbor. By the time it arrived, Symond was missing and his wife and servants had left: frightened that he had been murdered. It was even thought the three men had been cooked into pies and served to the Freys and Boltons by Lord Manderly here at Winterfell…when the bastard was wed to your Poole friend, Sansa; the one made to masquerade as Arya."

"I have heard these tales, Great-uncle," Sansa murmured thoughtfully. "My poor Jeyne," she added wistfully.

"So young Bradamar made the crossing with no one at White Harbor to welcome him, and even found himself in hostile territory. He had expected to find his family and the Freys in high standing; instead he was an outcast and his family reviled. He survived by menial work such as any low-born boy might do, as well as thievery and possibly worse: many sailors or soldiers will satisfy themselves with a boy with a wench is not at hand. Forgive me, Sansa," he added when he saw she looked distressed.

Sansa was silent a moment, then spoke to the maester. "Is he well…I mean-"

"I have tended his wounds, my lady, though I could not save his eye. You had…that is his eye was torn open by the point of the arrow and so I needed to remove it so stave off infection. The wound was then cauterized and his eye sewn shut and treated with boiled wine and salt, as where the scratches to his face," he reported calmly.

The Blackfish had winced at the description of the Frey's treatment and Sansa's brow had furrowed.

"What's cau-te-rized?" Rickon asked Sandor.

"Burned," Sandor rasped shortly. "It's done to stanch the bleeding when a man loses a limb…or tongue or an eye. They use a torch, or a heated knife or rod: red hot from a fire like a smith's work," he told his young goodbrother. He had no sympathy for the Frey boy: he had tried to murder Sansa, had held a dagger to her throat and threatened to cut her belly open. Let the maester cauterize whatever he saw fit; or not and let him die of bleeding and infection. Sandor knew from his leg wound how painful that was, just as he knew how it felt to be burned.

"When will he be put to death?" he rasped impatiently.

The maester looked to Sansa and back to Sandor. "When my lady decrees that he is condemned, my lord; she can sign such a decree-"

"No," Sansa insisted firmly and looked to Rickon for support, "I must hear his words myself, in the great hall, for all to witness."

"Will you swing the sword, sister?" Rickon enthused.

Sansa looked to Sandor now, but the maester interrupted.

"A greatsword, my young lord, is a heavy weapon for a lady to wield," he explained delicately, "especially a lady with child; and the strain may harm the health of the unborn babe and that of your lady sister. I would advise most decidedly against such an attempt, my lady," he bowed respectfully, "my lords," he turned to Sandor and Rickon.

"But it is tradition, maester," Rickon insisted stubbornly, "the man who passed the sentence must swing the sword."

"Indeed, my lord, however if I may suggest a…compromise? Lord and Lady Clegane are wed and therefore in the eyes of gods and men are one:  _one flesh, one heart, one soul_  as the septons of the new gods do say in their marriage vows. It would not therefore conflict with your tradition to have my lady pass sentence and her lord perform the execution."

"Thank you, maester: we will take your counsel to heart should we need to," Sansa mused absently.

"If?" The Blackfish was certain that he had misunderstood. "Sansa, you cannot mean to spare him?"

She looked at him now, and spoke with pain in her voice. "He was alone in the world, great-uncle, and a boy outcast and reviled for how his family was regarded. He is of an age with Arya: were we not exiled and disgraced ourselves, and did she not want revenge for her lost father?"

"He murdered innocent people, Sansa: your people. You are Warden of the North and the Lady of Winterfell. You cannot in good conscience let him go unpunished."

"I do not mean to say that he is innocent, great-uncle; only that I may not be the proper person to condemn him. Did not many die so that we could reclaim Wintefell and the North?"

"That was war," Sandor interjected, "and you did not start it, little bird; you only sought to end it. Well, it hasn't ended, not entirely it seems; but you must end this now," he told her somberly. "You said we would face matters together: I will face this with you, little bird."

….

 _Here ye thoughts is were th'Hound,_ the tanner told the smith as they trudged back to the winter town with their makeshift arms.

 _That'd be Lord Clegane te ye's all_ , the innkeeper reminded them,  _an' no th'Hound no mores. An' it were a pimply-faced boy a' that, who done fer our own._

 _They'll have 'is head, fer sure they will,_ the smith said now,  _an' it's grateful I'll be that I'm no losin' mine own. We owes that man, and we owes him te know we'll not be forgettin' neithers._


	16. Chapter 16

"Thank you, Rose," Sansa smiled pleasantly to her maid as she cleared her supper tray away. In truth, Sansa felt sorely frustrated and was certain that she was going mad sitting in bed all day while she imagined how much work there was to be done in Winterfell. They would not even bring her clothing to patch or mend. Despairing of anything at all to do with herself, Sansa had taken to reading from Sandor's worn copy of  _The Seven-Pointed Star_  that had been his parting gift from the Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle.

"M'lord," she heard Rose address Sandor in the hall outside the door, "and m'lit'l lady," she heard the smile in her voice that could only mean that she was addressing Catya; then she heard the spirited little giggle that followed.

"Well now, who might this be?" Sandor rasped to his daughter as he entered the chamber with their babe in his arms.

"MammaMAmmammama," Catya babbled though she remained uninterested in Sansa and continued to stare up at her father.

"Ma-ma," he told his daughter firmly.

"Heeee," she wheezed in agreement and reached to touch his face in fascination. Sandor rolled his eyes.

Sansa held out her arms to them. "Has your Papa brought me my sweet girl?" she cooed. She took her daughter to hold and kiss and Catya settled with her easily though she continued to watch her father. Sandor picked up  _The Seven-Pointed Star_  and looked at her questioningly.

"They refuse to bring me any work to do, Sandor," she told him, "not even the accounts or letters-"

"Your lord brother and the Blackfish can handle those a few more days, little bird; and the wildling women are running the castle like the harsh harridans they are. Anyone found idle is like to get a spear up their arse," he remarked.

"I pray you do not use such language when she begins to speak, Sandor; Rickon had already picked up a great deal of the harsher terms used by the garrison and the wildlings. He is still of noble birth, after all," she reprimanded him.

"Though not so stuck on it as some," Sandor countered harshly. "Did no one tell that Frey murderer his family are no longer nobles? Hell, his family  _is_  no longer."

"My family was also half-extinguished and half-exiled; as was yours, my love. We were both disgraced and even wanted for horrible crimes-" she began.

"Which we did not commit, little bird," he rasped. "We both know that."

"The truth has little effect on what others think, Sandor: we both know that well," she told him sadly even as she smiled at her daughter who was avidly following their conversation despite understanding not a word.

Sandor knew that all too well. "Aye," he acknowledged quietly, "might be you're right, little bird." He looked again to his copy of  _The Seven-Pointed Star_. "Poor man," he rasped, "he did try very hard to turn me to the faith."

Sansa smiled gently at him. She knew how much her husband respected and was grateful to the man who took him in and saved his life. She also understood that it was during his time of the Quiet Isle that he had decided to leave his sanctuary to look for her and offer his sword if she would have him, and to take her home or anywhere she wished to go. She hoped he did not regret it.

"He did teach me one thing," Sandor intoned, his grip tightening on the worn tome as he spoke, "that I had no say in what other did or even what they did to me; my part was in how I chose to live with those things. Might be I couldn't help being burned, but I didn't have to be the Hound either, or be so hard," he looked at her now. "I didn't even have to marry you, little bird," he teased her somewhat, "but I chose to." He reached to cup her face with his big hand. "Never think I didn't want you or our family, little bird; I just wanted to see you safe first."

Sansa smiled sadly and leaned into his hand. "That day has still not come, my love. And so I am glad we did not wait."

He nodded his agreement. "Me too, little bird," he rasped as he reached now to pat Catya's head.

"He-ee," she breathed at him with a delighted little grin.

….

The day Sansa returned to the high seat of Winterfell, nearly all of the castle and many from the winter town came to see the Frey boy brought before her for justice. She had donned her best pale gray wool dress and had Rose tie her auburn hair back from her face, trying to appear austere and serious in her task. Sandor came after morning training and changed into a dark gray wool tunic before escorting her to the great hall.

He stood behind her as she took her place in the high seat and then nodded to her great-uncle. "You may bring in the prisoner," she spoke levelly.

The shackled Frey boy was brought forth led by the solider Kit Snow. He bowed his head to her. "Yfer Snow, m'lady, who calls himself Bradamar Frey."

"I am a Frey of the Twins, a noble lord, and I demand trial by combat," he spat.

The crowd drew breath though many laughed at him. "Thinks he's still a lordling, this one," someone jeered.

Sansa raised her head high. "Surely the accused is aware that his family has been stripped of their titles and lands, and that the Twins is no more. Those lands have been divided and given to other nobles-"

"Newly-made upstarts by the dragon-whore! She bedded a savage, a Dothraki horse-lord, and presumes to rule without a husband to guide her! There is no law or order left in Westeros and I will not answer to her lackeys!"

"Daenerys Stormborn is a true-born Targaryen and rightful, victorious Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and her name will not be sullied in this hall," Sansa intoned firmly.

"Just as your savage, lying brother was King in the North? A true king keeps his word and doesn't attack his hosts under their roof like a rabid animal!"

The Northern commons and soldiers erupted in shouts of protest but then Osha pounded her spear and called: "The Lady of Winterfell will be heard!" Silence was restored.

"I thank you, Osha. I will have order in this trial or the hall will be cleared of all but the required soldiers and witnesses and our family. I beg you all not to make that necessary as I feel honour-bound to see justice done in the old way as my lord father did before me," Sansa finished before her voice began to quaver. She was conscious of Sandor's presence near her and it comforted her and strengthened her resolve.

"Honour," the Frey boy spat. "What do Starks know of honour? Your father was a traitor, and your mother an outlaw and murderer, your brother a liar and your bastard brother betrayed the Night's Watch to bed a wilding and steal the commander's post. You betrayed your Lannister husband and killed King Joffrey and were a whore to Lord Baelish and now to a lowly dog who is a deserter and rapist," spittle flew from his mouth as he raged and his sewn eye twitched constantly.

Sansa did not flinch or even react and paused momentarily before speaking again with her head still held high.

"Such things are said of my family, and my lord, and myself," she spoke firmly and clearly, for all to hear. "I do not dictate what men will say nor what they will choose to believe. I could not control what happened to my family nor what was done to me as a result. This family was also near-extinguished and disgraced, and sought to regain its rightful place and honour, because that was all that I could do and what I believed was right.

Had you come seeking shelter, or mercy you may have found some sympathy because we understand too well your trials and what it is to lose your family and your place and to be outcast when you are young and through no fault or doing of your own.

But you came seeking vengeance, and plotting murder, and so you have renounced your claim to any sympathy we may have had, as well as any claim you may have once had to honour. You have chosen your fate yourself; it only falls on me now to pronounce it.

Bradamar of the extinct House Frey, you attacked and threatened my life before witnesses, you confessed to murdering a soldier of the garrison on the outer wall. My Lord," she asked Sandor now, "has the man been found?"

"Aye, my lady. They found blood frozen down the wall and the body was seven days to dig out of the snow below, at great risk to those to searched for him," he rasped bitterly, glaring at the Frey. "His throat was cut, as the prisoner confessed."

"You were heard to tell my maid that you killed her husband and would do so again, and wished that you had killed us all, including our children," she continued.

"I wish I'd baked your wailing little whelp-bitch into a pie and served it to you like they did my father!"

Sansa felt bile rise in her gorge and turned her head slightly when she was Sandor take a step forward and stop himself. She steadied herself as she rose from her seat. "Your sword, my lord," she murmured to Sandor.

Sandor pulled his sword from his scabbard and turned the hilt to Sansa. She took the pommel in both hands and planted the point on the ground before her.

"For the crimes of treason and murder, I sentence you to die. Tomorrow at sunrise, you will be brought to a place of execution and your head will be cut from your body. I pray the gods will grant you mercy, Bradamar Frey," she intoned seriously, "for your hatefulness and utter lack of remorse have given me no reason to do so myself."

….

Sansa lay awake most of that night, her heart and mind troubled.

"You did well, little bird," Sandor mumbled sleepily beside her, "you did what was right."

"I know," she replied after a slight hesitation, "but it still does not make it easy."

Sandor sighed resignedly; then turned over to put his arm across her protectively. But she still lay awake.

….

The following morning dawned cold and cloudless. Sansa knew it would be bright by the time they reached the crossroads beyond the winter town where the Kingsroad intersected with bridle paths leading to other strongholds and villages. As Lady of Winterfell, she did not wish to have an execution preformed inside the castle walls or the town lest people remember the sight. In truth, she had no wish to see any execution again as long as she lived for it held too many powerful and painful memories for her. But it was her duty and so she went, riding in a sledge with the maester as Sandor, Rickon and the Blackfish rode through the town and over the snow-covered road to the big carved rock that marked the main road. She noted that the rock still bore the Stag sigil of the House of the late king, Robert Baratheon. She made a mental note to have it changed as soon as spring arrived.

When the sledge halted and the Blackfish stepped to help her down, she saw the shallow grave dug by soldiers who had cleared away snow and hard earth. She realized that Sandor or the Blackfish must have sent them out almost a fortnight ago. They had also placed a stained chopping block by the stone marker. She shook her head; clearly there had never been any doubt as to the boy's fate.

Finally the bare sledge bearing the bound prisoner arrived surrounded by soldiers and again Kit Snow had charge of him, pulling him to his feet and marching him to the block. The boy still struggled and fussed and claimed they had no right to put him to death. The Blackfish had heard enough.

"In the name of the Seven, boy, you are here to die: do it with some dignity if you would have us think you are noble," he sneered impatiently.

The Frey stopped and stared at him, and then looked around with some alarm, if though he only just now realized what was happening.

"No," he whimpered, "mercy."

"You'll have it," the Blackfish told him quietly. "Lord Clegane will strike you with one blow. You are not like to feel anything."

The boy only whimpered again and Kit pushed him to his knees before the block as Sandor slid his sword from his scabbard and once again handed the hilt to Sansa. She took it in both hands and bowed her head.

"In the name Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of her Name, Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Sansa of the Houses Stark and Clegane, Lady of Winterfell and acting Warden of the North, do sentence you to die."

She handed the sword back to Sandor and stepped back and away and took her young brother by the hand before nodding resolutely to her husband. Sandor bowed his head briefly over the pommel and murmured "for my lady and for Winterfell" before swinging his sword overhead with a roar and bringing it down with a mighty  _thwack_  that severed the Frey's head cleanly and quickly and sent great spurts of blood across the snow, staining it a dark red, like Dornish wine. His head fell but mercifully did not roll. Sansa had not flinched and felt as cold and immobile as the stone marker.  _My skin has turned from porcelain to ivory to steel_ , she thought now. Mayhaps Sandor was right: life did make you hard or you would die of it. She turned to Rickon and nodded to him. He let go of her hand and stepped towards Sandor.

"It was well done, brother. Thank you for keeping our tradition. You are truly even more of the North now," he told him respectfully.

Sandor bowed his head to his liege lord and little goodbrother. "I thank you, my lord. I know you will do as well one day, when you are older and are called to do your duty as Lord of Wintefell…just as your sister has today." He looked at Sansa with a fierce pride and stepped to put his hand on her shoulder. "Are you well, my lady?"

She nodded, speechless for a moment before finding her voice. "I am well, my lord, I thank you."

"Good. Maester, see my lady back to the keep and be sure that she is well. We will return once the wretched lad is buried," he rasped authoritatively.

Sansa looked back briefly to see the soldiers dragging the boy's body over the snow to the shallow grave.

"Oh, look there: he done pissed hisself," one laughed at the yellow stain on the snow.

She turned away and allowed the maester to help her into the sledge and wrap furs around her before he picked up the reins and clucked to the horses to walk on. Sansa stared straight ahead and only noticed once they reached the walls of Winterfell that she had been right. It was a perfectly clear and sunny and very cold. There would be no snow that day to cover the boy's blood, nor his shallow grave at the crossroads.

….

 _Coulda been Lord Stark's day te see them grim faces comin' back frum th'execution,_ the tanner remarked to the innkeeper over his ale and bowl of stew.  _He was a right serious man, he was._

 _Was ye expectin' 'em te be jolly then? It weren't a sleighride fer th'fun o'it, were it? And our poor lady wit' child an' all,_ the innkeeper's wife shook her head sadly.  _A lady's got no bus'ness doin' death when she's fulla life._

 _It weren't her then; it were th'Ho- her lord that dones it; one pow'rful blow too, it was,_ the smith said ominously.

 _More mercy'n somes deserve,_  the innkeeper's wife countered with a steady gaze at the smith before she moved off to wipe down tables.


	17. Chapter 17

The Blackfish hesitated momentarily before entering the baker's. He blinked once he was inside so that his eyes became accustomed to the darkness after the blinding sunlight on snow in the winter town.

"Help ye, Ser?" the baker's widow asked softly. She hadn't any flour on her dress and there was no smell of bread or baking. "I'm afraid we've not anythin' t'day: I've no flour te work wit'," she admitted reluctantly.

"No flour? But how will you manage? Your daughters?" he gestured.

She pursed her lips grimly. "I thinks there be a man who comes 'round here wit' flour an' other foods, Ser; my husban' dealt wit' him and sent me upstairs when he come so I dunno iffen he'll deal wit' me, or even when he comes."

"I'll enquire for you; and see if we can spare any stores from Winterfell. My lady will not want you and your daughters to suffer from want; in fact there was a horse put down after it fell and broke its leg: please permit me to bring you some meat from our rations."

He saw her hesitate and realized that she did not want to be indebted to him. Clearly he had not been subtle in his regard or concern for her.  _Foolish old man_ , he thought. "I will ask young Rose to bring it to you when she next visits her father at the forge; I know my lady trusts her implicitily…and you have both lost husbands…" he trailed off, feeling even more the fool.

"That be right kind o'ye, Ser," she said quietly. "They says th'Frey were kill't this mornin'," she added tentatively.

"Yes," he replied quickly. "F- forgive me for that is the reason I came…to say, that is, to tell you that justice has been done," he announced rather ponderously.  _I sound like a boy page at his first court,_  he upbraided himself.

Her eyes darted about uncomfortably now. "Thankee, Ser…I'd heard tell o'it…my thanks te her ladyship, an' her lord fer…all they'se done." She balled her fists and then clutched her hands together awkwardly.

"Well," he replied. "Well then, I will wish you good day, then: good day."

The Blackfish turned and marched straight out the door into the bright sunlight and freezing cold and let out a great breath of air. "Oh, seven hells, but I'm an idiot," he swore impatiently. "I'm worse than a green boy with pimples and no hair on his balls," he muttered as he mounted his horse. "Bloody fool." He was still muttering when he dismounted in the yard of Winterfell.

….

"Rosie?"

Rose turned in the hallway to see Kit walking out of the shadow of the stairs.

"Alright then?" he asked her.

"He's dead an' buried, ain't'e?" she replied sharply.

"Aye, an' sobbed an' pissed hisself iffen it makes ye feel better," he told her levelly.

Rose's shoulders slumped somewhat and her defiance dissipated. "Not really-like," she shook her head. "M'lady tol'me te spend time wit' Tom t'day."

"That's nice," he nodded. "Ye tell'im fer me he'sa good boy then," he began turning to walk away.

"Tell'im yerself then," she blurted, "iffen ye'd like te," she amended softly.

Kit's mouth turned up into a shy smile. "Aye, I think I would like te, Rosie. Thanks." He followed her to the nursery.

….

Sandor found Sanda in the solar, sitting in front of the hearth fire as she watched Catya play with her carved wooden animals on the bare floor. Sansa was bent over, hugging her knees, and though she was watching her daughter, her face was expressionless.

"Little bird?" he called to her. "Have you been here since returning?"

"Hm, I think so," she said absently as she reached to take a wooden animal out of Catya's mouth. Her daughter looked at the carved animal and instead offered it to Sandor.

"Still cutting her teeth?" he asked and Sansa nodded. "How do you feel?" he asked now, taking the little wooden toy. "I imagine an execution was not easy for you to watch, little bird."

She was silent a moment. "I feel nothing, Sandor: that is how I fell. I have grown hard, I fear: is this how it is? Like nothing at all can touch you anymore?" Her voice was flat and she was looking upon her daughter instead of at him as she spoke. "I used to have to hide how I felt, and now I feel nothing."

Sandor handed Catya back her toy. "You're  _not_  hard," he rasped fiercely. "You will never be hard, little bird: you are too kind for that. Why should you mourn a boy who murdered people in cold blood, who slandered your family?"

"Was it slander? Did Arya not become an assassin? Did my mother not hang Freys and Lannisters in the Riverlands with her outlaws? Will I protest in vain if they judge Arya, or be given leave to mourn if they come for my sister's head," she lamented.

"Look at me, Sansa," he intoned firmly. Even Catya looked up at his tone. "You are the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. It was your duty and it did it well. But if you no longer wish to do it, little bird, then leave it to your brother and his advisors. Call back the Greatjon and the Mormont woman to care for him," he told her as she turned away and dropped her head in her hands. "I will take you from here, little bird; I will take you wherever you want to go: just us and our babes and no one else. I promised you."

She shook her head stubbornly behind her hands. "I can't," came her muffled reply. "You know I can't. Poor Rickon, Sandor: he will never understand; mayhaps he will grow wild again. And Winterfell, and the winter town, and the commons: who will see to it all if not me? Who knows my father's way so well, other than Jon or mayhaps Arya-"

"Your brother made his choice to stay with the Night's Watch; I thought you had made yours to stay here."

She hugged herself and whispered: "I hate what they have made me: I am hard and heartless."

"Bugger that, little bird: you are strong, you have always been strong but you never knew it because you thought they had all the power. But you outlived them, and you stayed kind," he brushed her hair back from her shoulder, "and sweet, and you are keeping your father's legacy as a just warden."

"I was never meant to be more than a chirping, stupid little bird, reciting pretty words and wearing pretty gowns and wearing my hair in the latest fashion," she observed dully. "Sometimes I think I miss that girl. She did not have to condemn murderers, or ration food and firewood-"

"That girl," he rasped, "would not have bedded and wedded a burned dog and called him her lord," he rasped now.

She turned to him again, and gave him a sad smile even as she reached to touch his scarred face. "That girl, and this one, love you very much Sandor. You have never lied to me, or hurt me. You say I am strong, but I am stronger with you beside me. I must do this," she added resignedly.

Sandor wrapped her in his arms now, holding her close and resting his chin on her head. "It will be well again, little bird: just give it time and it will be well. You decide how you will be, not them." He kissed the top of her head. "Don't let them make you someone you don't want to be," he rasped knowingly.

Catya threw down her toys and crawled to him now and hugged his legs. He reached down to pat her head. "Mama will be well, girl."

….

"Is his family still alive?" Sansa asked the Blackfish later that evening in the solar as they sat across from each other at the sole table she used as a desk. Sandor sat at the heart with Rickon and Shaggydog.

"We think so," her great-uncle replied. "Betharios of Braavos chose exile over death or the faith, naturally; but her family did not want her back, as she was considered unmarriageable, and so she went to Pentos where she is believed to be working as a seamstress to a wealthy woman." He paused before continuing. "Her older son is a singer and her daughter by Frey, Alyx, I believe she is called, is a handmaiden; though there are rumours she is actually …in a brothel-"

Sansa turned her head away in disgust and pain.

"-but you must consider, Sansa, that, given the… _unfortunate_ looks of the Frey women that this is reasonably unlikely."

Sansa shook her head sadly and looked about the room: desolate though it was, it was her home. "Great-uncle, without my claim to Winterfell, I might well have been thrust into the same horrible indignities as these women. My poor friend Jeyne was sent to a brothel," she stated flatly.

"Do not think of such things, Sansa, they can only bring you grief. Besides, the queen permitted many of the Frey girls to join the faith in motherhouses or with the Silent Sisters, just as she permitted the young boys to join septries. The only stipulation was that they could no longer be Freys, but Rivers, and the girls could revert to their mother's maiden names."

Sansa pondered this. "It is fortunate that our queen knows what it is to be a woman of a disgraced family, and to live in exile. And yet many chose exile," she pointed out to the Blackfish.

"Most women with children chose exile; doubtless they were hoping to avoid disgrace for their sons and daughters, though it has followed most of them and none are known to have remarried. And they will be condemned to death should they ever return to Westeros."

"I cannot imagine why they should return," Sansa remarked, "they have no home anymore and none of their families would take them back, except the Lannisters, of course, and even they are barred from leaving Casterly Rock by the queen's orders."

The Blackfish scoffed mildly. "Give that time; Tyrion is like to speak for them eventually; especially Genna, they have always been fond of each other, in their particular way."

Sansa did not wish to speak of Tyrion and so returned to the subject of the Freys. "Do you believe the stories that the old bridge across the Green Fork is haunted now?" The bridge between the Twins was all that now remained of the two castles that sat either side or the river. What had not been destroyed by dragonfire and trebuchets in the siege, had been torn down and carted away to build the new holdfasts of those who now held the lands on either side of the river. Queen Daenerys had ruled that the bridge should become the property of the crown and that no new lord might build his holdfast within its sight. Any person, army or brigands found to be charging tolls or impeding crossing would be put to death.

Her great-uncle sneered fiercely. "I hope to gods it is haunted, child: those Freys deserve the torments of all seven hells and if their punishment is to walk the bridge from which the remaining men were all hanged alongside their miserable rat of a patriarch, Walder Frey, then to my mind, they all got off lightly. I would more of them had been burned by dragonfire or drowned in the Green Fork…" he paused when he saw her face. "Forgive me, child; the desire for revenge is why we are having this talk, is it not?"

"Yes," she agreed, "I guess it is. I would find out if his remaining family would have his bones and his few effects. We can send them in the Spring but not before; I will not have men risk the trip to White Harbor until the passage is safe."

Her great-uncle smiled sadly at her. "You are kind to do this, Sansa; many would not make such an offer."

 _Even Tyrion had my father's bones returned to us._  "Great-uncle Bryden, have the message go through the Hand of the Queen, it you would arrange it; I do not think they would want a raven from Winterfell."

"And you are wise as well," he added. "Very well, my lady: I will see to it."

….

Sandor entered their chamber quietly, finding his way to this bench in the fading light of the small hearth fire. He undressed and turned to the bed hesitantly. He could see that Sansa slept curled away from him and towards the fire, and remembered the time recently when he came in to find her sleeping naked on his side. He pulled back the furs and slid in carefully.

Sansa wished she could bring herself to turn to her husband and curl up next to him as she loved to so, but her heart was too heavy and so she hoped that he thought she slept. She felt him take a handful of the ends of her hair and bring it to his lips and settled himself against him bolster. She shut her eyes tightly; overwhelmed by his tenderness. It was the first thing she had felt all day.

….

 _We gots the wood frum the cooper's; it's not like he'd mind, and they's givin' th'tanner some'o that horse hide frum the dead animal…_ the smith was saying.

 _How long ye reckon this'll take then?_ another man asked.

The innkeeper's wife looked at him incredulously.  _It be winter ye daft idjit: was ye gots someplace e go then?_

_No-_

_Then make yerself busy,_  she told him.  _I'll bring ales…in a bit._


	18. Chapter 18

**Okay: big long wrap-up chapter to make up for stumbling half-way through. Thank you all for hanging in.**

The baker's widow was chopping the fresh horse meat brought to her from Winterfell by the smith's daughter Rose when she heard her front door open and the sound of a pair of heavy boots on the floor. She didn't need to turn to know who it was.  _That Blackfish agin'; he don't gives up easy, that one._

"I thanks ye fer th'meat frum th'castle, Ser," she said over her shoulder.

"I'm no Ser," a voice rasped firmly.

The baker's widow jumped and turned to see Lord Clegane standing in her doorway. He shut the door tightly behind him.

"Forgives me, m'lord; I thought ye were-"

"I know," he replied shortly, and took a long step into the room to look down on her. Then he looked towards her work table. "You're very good with a knife, aren't you?"

"M-m'lord?" she stammered vaguely. "The-the Blackfish, m'lord, had flour an' horse meat sent frum th'castle. He said it wouldn't be no hardship-"

"That's not why I'm here…and I expect you know that," he nodded as he spoke.

"N-no, m'lord, I-" Her eyes darted about the room as though seeking escape.

"The Frey boy was not patrolling the village when your husband was killed; he was in the keep. I was reminded of that before his trial."

"M-might it not be he slipped away, m'lord? I didn'a see him meself acause I was upstair wit' m'daughters," she told him.

"You didn't see him because he was not here…because you killed your husband yourself," he insisted quietly. "Didn't you?"

Tears welled up in the widow's eyes. "M-mercy, m'lord. Not fer me, but fer m'daughters. Send'em aways afore…afore ye must take m'head, m'lord: don'a lets 'em see, or live where their own ma'd be a known as a killer…like th'Frey." She looked up at Sandor appealingly. "He…I just couldn'a takes it no more, m'lord, a-bein' scared all'a th'time like, and fearin' fer th'girls. So's when he raised his han' th'last time an' I had th'knife…I used it. Folks was already bein' kill't so's I reckoned what's one more?" She almost laughed in her nervousness and fear and instantly clamped her hand over her mouth, "Forgives me, m'lord," she whispered.

"I wish you had let my lady send you away when she offered to; we could have protected you and your girls," he rasped.

She shook her head, defeated. "No, tha'd never a worked. It never did, not never, m'lord."

"Well, might be this will be difficult for my lady, to needs condemn a mother," he began.

"I-I'se powerful sorry, m'lord. She's a-seen enough a'death, I expec'," she began to sniffle.

"Aye, that she has…and so you must take this to your grave," he warned her harshly.

The widow nodded resignedly and then looked up, perplexed.

"You can never tell anyone, do you understand me?" he loomed over her ominously. "I cannot be known to be tolerant of any crime, much less a murder of another villager, no matter how vile he may have been," he thought to grab and shake sense to her but could see from her face that she understood. Still, he wanted there to be no doubt of his seriousness. "If any word gets out, if anyone suspects; then we'll have no choice but to put you on trial…for murder," he leaned in closer still and rasped: "I'll be very angry if my lady needs condemn a mother with children; you don't want me to be angry when I'm the one who swings the sword." He saw her gulp and tremble and was satisfied. He backed away now.

"Don't hesitate to come to the castle if you need help, or ask the soldiers to send someone," he added as an afterthought. "My lady wishes to rebuild the North, you see," he turned to look at her now, "and we cannot do that without you. And I will not see my lady disappointed." He nodded and left.

….

Sandor found Sansa in the great hall when he returned to Winterfell. When she spotted him, she nodded and looked toward the stairs. Sandor understood and climbed up to their chamber to wait for her.

When she arrived, she closed the door behind her and walked swiftly to him, her expression anxious.

"Sandor?" she whispered

"She knows I know, little bird; and she knows she will be tried if anyone else should ever know," he rasped softly so they could not be heard. It had in fact been Sansa who remembered the Frey had been patrolling the keep when the baker was killed. Sandor recalled that he had been patrolling or off duty at the times of all the other murders; only the baker's death could not be his work.

Sansa stared into the middle distance. "Even if she were tried, Sandor; I do not think I could condemn her," she stated resignedly.

He reached to gently trace his fingertip from her brow to her chin. "I know, little bird…but she doesn't need to know that," he added.

Sansa nodded vaguely. "You're right." She looked up at him now. "Thank you, Sandor, for your counsel and your help in this matter. I know it cannot be easy for you, to be thought weak or-"

Sandor scoffed. "That is the last thing she is thinking, I made bloody sure of that," he rasped fiercely. Then he softened. "I couldn't condemn her either, little bird: a woman and children living in fear of a brute…" he trailed off, not needing to explain further. "Still, we cannot have anyone know; we cannot to risk your position as warden by overlooking a crime. Let them think it was the Frey: they'll be satisfied with that."

She nodded awkwardly. Sandor could see the thought of the boy still upset her. He cleared his throat. "I needs leave for afternoon training now, little bird: I've your little lord brother to instruct."

"Oh! Of course," she nodded. "Well then…" she stood aside to let him pass, and gave him a restrained smile. He wished for something to make her smile for true.  _In time,_  he reminded himself,  _she will be well in time._  He bent to kiss her cheek lightly and quickly, and left their chamber.

….

Sansa stood beneath the bridge between the armory and Great Keep, watching from the shadows as Rose practiced her knife and spear-handling with the wildling women later in the day. After she had seem them join the soldiers to rescue Sansa from the Frey, Rose had decided that she wanted more training to learn to protect herself and her son. Sansa smiled to see her determination to become strong.  _Strong, not hard._  She sighed, remembering her own determination to be stronger for her own family and to share responsibilities with Sandor so he would not need to be strong for both of them. She squared her shoulders and set out across the yard, nodding to the respectful greetings until a great mess of wet snow fell on the back of her head and slipped beneath her cloak and gown.

"Oh!" She turned when she heard laughter and spotted her brother at the sole window of the bridge.

"Rickon! You sneak!" Sansa shrieked for all of Winterfell to hear. 'I'll get you for that!" Sansa picked up a great pile of snow in her gloved hands and packing it before lifting her hem and hurrying towards the keep. She waited at the door for him to come into the yard but he had doubled back and come out the armory to fling another snowball at her.

Sansa turned and hurled her own snowball at her brother, hitting him square in his face. He threw his hands up and howled before doubling over. Sansa ran to him.

"Rickon," she asked worriedly, "did I hurt you?"

"No!" He laughed and threw more snow at her. Sansa gave chase through the yard as the soldiers and tradesmen shouted encouragement.

"Aye, show'im then, m'lady!"

"Get'im good!"

"Nay, he went t'other way, m'lady."

Sandor came down the steps from the inner wall to hear Sansa and Rickon laughing and shrieking and being chased by Shaggydog around the yard as they threw snowballs and sometimes just handfuls of snow at each other. His mouth twitched into a brief smile before he headed to the stables.

Some time later Sansa found him there, brushing Stranger in his stall. She didn't question why he took care of his own horse rather than the stable boys or grooms; no one but Sandor could handle Stranger. Sandor even claimed his courser had broken bones and bitten off ears of brothers on the Quiet Isle. She decided it was safer to believe him though the temperamental horse had eventually learned to tolerate Sansa on their return to the North.

"Who won your fight?" Sandor rasped when he saw her watching him. Her hair had loose tendrils and her face and cloak were damp from melted snow.

"Both of us…or mayhaps neither," she smiled soflty. She stepped forward and tentatively reached her hand out to Stranger's muzzle. The horse nickered softly and so she stroked his face up to his dark forehead.

"I had a dream last night," she told Sandor. "It was summer; and we rode out together on Stranger." She stopped stroking him and came to stand beside Sandor in the stall.

Sandor grunted. "Might be he'll be too old to carry the both of us come summer, little bird." He patted his courser's rump affectionately. "Won't you then?" he asked it. "I'll want to pick the best mare, and see if he'll breed. So we'll have a pony for Catya…when she's ready." He turned his head to look her over. "Might be we'll have two or more," he added.

Sansa smiled brighter now. "That's a lovely idea, Sandor. Even Stranger can have a family," she observed wistfully.

Sandor continued brushing his horse. "And where did we ride in your dream? To our lands?" he asked, referring to the lands of the ruined Dreadfort that had been awarded to him by Rickon with his lordship after the ears.

Sansa shook her head. She had no desire to take up residence in the Boltons' former stronghold and so Sandor had made no move to claim or even rebuild it. He only sent the occasional patrol of soldiers to ensure the peace was kept though most crofts were abandoned and most villages as near-empty as the winter town. Sansa sometimes wondered if she were dreaming to believe the North could be strong again by Spring or Summer.

"We rode to the edge of the Wolfswood," she told him instead. "We had sun on our faces, and wind in our hair and we could smell green grass and the trees and flowers; and everything was warm and green and beautiful so that we did not even needs wear cloaks."

"That sounds very nice, little bird; but I'm afraid it will be some times before your dream comes true," he rasped.

She stepped closer to him. "We stopped to share bread and wine," she murmured, "and then I unbound my hair and unlaced my gown so that I could lie in the grass and give myself to you. " She trailed her hand down his arm now. "I've missed you, Sandor."

Sandor finished brushing Stranger and turned to set the brush on a shelf before turning back to Sansa. She stepped to him to reach her arms around his neck but he stopped her by taking her wrists, then lifted each hand to his mouth to kiss them.

"Not here," he leaned down to tell her close to her ear, "and not now. I don't want to fumble under your wet cloak and have you quickly, little bird. I want to unbind your hair and unlace your gown and have you give yourself to me as you would in the warm grass of the Wolfswood. Will you let me do that, little bird?"

Sans blushed and nodded. "Yes, Sandor, of course I will," she whispered.

Sandor paused to press his lips into the damp auburn hair curling behind her ear. "Go on, then. Change before you catch chill and your skin is as cold as the Others. Then I will wait until summer to touch you again." He smacked her bottom lightly and pushed her gently towards the door. She smiled secretly as she raised her hem and ran lightly back towards the yard and keep.

….

Kit entered the solar hesitantly. "M'lady," he addressed Sansa.

Sansa smiled at him and set down her quill. "Kit Snow, I thank you for coming. You may enter, please."

He walked into the room and stood before her makeshift desk. "How might I be of service, m'lady?"

"You may permit me to thank you for your service, Kit Snow: had you not appeared on the wall when you did with the other soldiers…that…that boy would have slit my throat….h-he meant to harm my unborn child as well. I-"

"It be an honor t'be of service, m'lady. Don't ye thinks no more on'im- " he stopped himself. "Forgives me, m'lady: I meant t'say: please don'a thinks on that no more; I fears it can'a be good for ye…nor the child." He raised his head now and stood taller. "Lord Eddard Stark was right good t'me, m'lady; I won't never forgets that. For him, and for yerself, m'lady, I'm proud an' grateful te have been of service te ye."

Sansa dropped her eyes to her clasped hands. "It pleases me to hear you speak so well of my lord father, Kit Snow; tell me, please: do you remember him truly?"

"Aye, m'lady," he smiled gently now, "they bringed us boys from the orphan's place te Winterfell te see if we'd be taken t'apprentice-like. I was th'biggest an' so yer lord father sat me'n in the hall and give me t'eat and asks me name an' iffen I likes bein' outside an' can works hard a'cause there be a crofter wit' only girl babes and needin' a boy te helps'em. So's I tol'im 'aye' an' he send me off wit' new boots an'breeches an'shirt all bundle'up in a cloak and tells me te be a good lad an' might be…" he stopped. "He was a good strong man, an' kind, m'lady."

"But what did he tell you might be, Kit Snow? Please tell me," she insisted gently.

"Lord Stark, well, he says it might be I have me own croft someday, m'lady. I-I expec' he meant I'd marry one o'th'girls…but they'se gone now," he hung his head.

"You would like your own croft," she prompted, "and a family of your own as well. Do not be shy to say so, for these are fine things to want. My lord said that you wish to have a family someday," she reminded him.

"Aye, an' told me we coulds live here at Winterfell, m'lady, where I'm needed," he assured her. "I won'ts leave the commander after he's been good te me as Lord Stark was, m'lady."

Sansa ducked her head as he eyes filled with tears. "You are so very kind to say so, Kit Snow; and we do need you here at Winterfell for now, however, in the Spring, we will need crofters to plant and raise crops and harvest them. So many families have been lost, and so many homesteads are destroyed and abandoned. So, if it is your wish to have a croft of your own, it would please me very much to grant you the lands of the family to whom my father sent you, or any other lands if they should return. Would that please you, Kit Snow?"

The young man could barely contain his excitement. A great smile split his face and he bowed twice. "It would, m'lady; I can'a thanks ye enough. You're as kind an' generous as yer lord father, m'lady. I can'a wait te tell-" he stopped suddenly and dropped his eyes. "…th'other soldiers," he finished too late.

Sansa tilted her head and smiled softly. "You are passing fond of Rose and her boy, Kit Snow; you do not offend me nor do I believe it offends her."

Kit blushed and scuffed his feet on the floor. "She's only jus' a turn a widow-" he began awkwardly.

"Give it time, Kit Snow: all will be well in time," she advised him. "And there will be time enough before Spring."

"Aye, m'lady," he replied simply.

Sansa looked at him fondly for a moment: his dark looks and seriousness of purpose reminded her somewhat of Jon.

"You may go," she said finally, and the boy bowed to her again and left.

Later that night, when she lay curled up in Sandor's arms, she recounted the conversation with him.

"Buggering hells, girl, he's one of the best in the garrison…and you'll lose your maid as well," he complained mildly.

"We'll need crofters more than soldiers in Spring, Sandor; though just because it is right does not mean it will be easy," she lifted her head now to look him in the eyes. He softened then, and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"You know best, little bird," he rasped softly, "you're the Lady of Winterfell."

"Hm," she agreed and kissed him lingeringly before looking into his eyes again. She ran her hand over the hair on his chest and rubbed her leg between his. "Are you…that is, will you sleep now, my love?"

Sandor's mouth twitched into a grin. "You're a randy little bird, is that it? Mind you dream of Summer more often; it should keep me warm until Winter is gone," he growled as she moved closer to him.

"Winter is never truly gone in the North, my love; you know our words:  _Winter is coming_."

"I will be too, little bird, if you keep rubbing my cock like you're doing," he grunted.

She giggled softly now. "But Sandor, you've forgotten the best part of my dream," she whispered closely, brushing her lips over his.

"I buggering did  _not_! You've been unbound and unlaced and gave yourself," he kissed her fiercely now, " -to me. What in seven hells did I forget?" he demanded.

"Hm, that I wanted to ride," she told him, and threw her leg over his hip to settle on top of him with her hands on his broad chest. He reached to frame her face with his hands.

"To the Wolfswood s it? Pace yourself then." His eyes dropped to her middle and he tenderly caressed her rounded belly. "…and go gently, little bird," he rasped quietly now.

Sansa looked at him and leaned forward again. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she loved carrying their babe and being in his arms and waking up to him every day. She loved his strength and his tenderness and how safe and how much braver she felt with him beside her. Instead she kissed him deeply and passionately, and hoped that would be enough.

…..

The baker's widow looked up at the clear night sky full of stars before latching the shutter. As she pulled back form the window, she heard a horse snort below in the road and saw the Blackfish sitting astride his courser. He looked away quickly as she spotted him and picked up his reins.

"Ser," she called. "Ser Blackfish: please." She ran from the window and down her narrow stairs to the front door, which she opened slightly. The man had dismounted and walked to greet her with a respectful nod of his head.

"Forgives me, Ser," she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. "But I wished te thank'ye for the rations ye sent wit' Rose. I mades meat pies for m'girls an' they was happy t'eat so well. I- I'm right grateful…I could'na lets ye pass wit'out sayin' is all."

"Thank you, you are very kind," he replied formally. "I was glad to do it…and very pleased to hear they were happy and well fed," he added in a softer tone.

She looked at him and found some courage. "I- that is, we have another pie t'eat tomorrow supper, Ser…might ye like t'eat wit' us…so we can thanks ye proper? I expec' ye eat better at th'castle…"

"I would have been very honored to join you," he interjected, "however I must leave on the morrow."

"Leave?" She sounded confused. "Te th'Riverlands, Ser?"

"No, not so very far but to patrol Lord Clegane's lands to the east: there is no garrison in the old keep naturally. It lies in ruins."

The widow nodded grimly. "Them Boltons gots what they deserved; folks knows it was you an' Lord Clegane put them to th'sword…and th'dragon queen finished'em wit' fire an' blood."

The Blackfish ducked his head modestly. "Well, I don't image we shall have such adventures this time…just cold and snow for the nest few turns."

"May th'old gods watch over ye' and th'rest, Ser," she murmured now.

"Thank you…mayhaps…if it is not untoward to ask, may I call on you and your daughters when I return. I should like to know how you are faring," he asked more formally again.

She nodded slightly. "I- tha'd be right kind of ye, Ser."

He looked at her a long moment before stepping back. 'You should go in now, it is very cold."

"G'night, Ser," she began closing the door.

He looked back as he walked to his horse. "And it was very nice to see you looking up," he pointed to the night sky, "you looked rather hopeful, instead of frightened. I pray things continue to go well for you. Farewell then."

….

The next morning Sansa descended to the yard with Sandor to see her great-uncle off on patrol. As the soldiers left through the gate, a number of villagers arrived and Sansa recognized them as those who had volunteered to work some days of very turn to help repair the castle. This morning they dragged a low sledge behind them with something tied to it. They brought it right into the yard and stopped before Sansa and Sandor.

"Mornin' m'lady, m'lord," the smith was somewhat out of breath. "We'se brought ye sumthin'…for Lord Clegane it is…tis our thanks fer puttin' down the Frey murderer," he finished.

Sandor could see square corners of wood sticking up from underneath a length of worn oilcloth.  _Seven hells, they've made me a coffin: they truly do mean to murder me,_  he scoffed humorlessly to himself.

"What is it?" Sansa asked with innocent curiosity.

"Show our lady then," the smith motioned to the others. They tipped the object upright and removed the oilcloth.

"Oh!" Sansa cried, delighted and tearful all at once. "Sandor…my lord: look, it's-"

It was a large wooden armchair, built high off the ground with a wide seat and high back to fit Sandor's large frame and great height. The rough boards had been sanded smooth and treated with linseed oil and the ends of the armrests had been crudely carved to resemble dog heads.

"We'se took th'wood frum the cooper's place, not thinkin' he'd mind, m'lord; and the seat be horsehair from th'animal what was put down. Th'tanner found leather fer the arms. I fears carvin's not one'o our trades…but might be somes here could do a better job'o it."

Sandor stayed rooted as he looked over the piece. Finally he nodded. "I like it fine the way it is," he rasped. "It's a fine gift," he said simply.

"Now ye's kin sit by yer lady, m'lord, like a proper lord then," the tanner told him.

"Only a Stark sits the high seat of Winterfell," Sandor cut him off brusquely. The men all stared uncomfortably.

Sansa smiled at them. "Mayhaps in the solar, my lord, so that we may keep each other company in some comfort now."

Sandor inclined his head to Sansa. "As you wish, my lady," he spoke respectfully to her.

"So's ye know we thinks yer a right Northern lord now, m'lord," the smith said firmly. "Sure it's not be like the fine bits of old, but we wants te gives yer sumthin' of yer own fer th'castle." He was followed by a chorus of 'ayes' from the other villagers.

Sandor stared at the armchair again and nodded. "I thank you for your gift," he said simply. "I needs train now; and you all have work to do."

"Aye, m'lord," they all murmured and bowed and went on their respective ways.

Sansa stepped closer to him. "I'll have it brought up to the solar, my lord. The garrison is waiting for you."

Sandor nodded to her and walked to where the soldiers were waiting. "What do you all think you're looking at?" he bellowed. "You're none of you like to sit and rest your arses this morning; now fall in!"

After the evening meal in the great hall, Sansa retired to the solar to work on her proposal to the Queen. Sansa wished to teach natural-born girls their letter and numbers to that they could travel to villages and teach the children of the commons. She believed it would improve life for all the Northerners if they could read and write and do simple sums; and that it would improve the prospects for bastard girls who would no longer be looked upon as mere wenches. Sansa wanted every village and holdfast in the North to have a teaching house.

As she composed her missive, she stole looks at Sandor walking around his chair and examining it from all angles before finally sitting down. She thought how wonderful it was that the villagers, her people, had come to accept him, and she smiled to herself.

"Are you laughing at me, little bird?" he growled now.

Sansa raised her head and shook it slowly though she still smiled to see him sitting in the great armchair.

"No Sandor, I was thinking of my father who always sat in the solar in his great chair and told of stories of the children of the forest and the old gods. I think of him often in this room," she added with a sad fondness.

Sandor held out his hand to her. "Come here, little bird."

Sansa rose and crossed to him and then sat in his lap with her arms around his neck. Sandor lowered his head to hers.

"I've been thinking of your father as well," he rasped.

"Have you?"

Sandor put his large hand on her swelling belly now. "I've been thinking if we have a son…might be we should call him Eddard. Would you like that, little bird?"

Sansa nodded, her eyes filling with tears of happiness. "But Sandor, we named out daughter for my mother and Arya; it there no one in your own family-"

He cut her off: "You're my family now; and Winterfell is our home. I've nothing but myself…and a dog sigil," he mocked. "You and Catya and our next pup,little bird: that's all the family I need…and Rickon and the Blackfish," he gestured to mean her entire family.

"Thank you, Sandor," Sansa whispered and kissed him gently. " _Lord Eddard Clegane_ ," she pronounced softly.

Sandor's mouth twitched into a smile and he looked into her eyes. "Let's be done with death now, little bird; we've a new life on his way." He pulled her to him and kissed her back.

….

The innkeeper's wife took the worn wool dresses and stockings and shawl from a burlap bag to give to the baker's widow.

 _She'd not much at all, poor Jeynie, an' I coulds not part wit' it 'til t'day,_  she explained,  _but th'poor child's a-gone an' not comin' back so they may's well warm some other girls. Ye kin cuts 'em down te fit or waits fer them te grow; it's no matter te me so long's they be put te good use then._

The baker's widow bowed her head over the small pile.  _That be right kind of ye: gods, they be growin' so fast, and winter not yet done. I can'a thanks ye enough._

 _It be like the Lady a'Winterfell says: we needs help an' look te each other iffen we're te make it alive. So's it's glad I am te be doin' it,_ she nodded resolutely.

 _Did them men who bad-mouth'd her lord truly give him a big fancy seat te sits in?_ the widow asked her.

 _Ye bets yer arse they did: I'se kept at'em 'til they were done, to be sure: right lazy iffen ye lets'em be._ She rolled her eyes. Then she leaned closer to speak confidentially.  _Not all, mind ye: I'll be missin' seein' that Blackfish in these parts, he's fine te look at for an older man, what wit' them Tully-blue eyes like our King'o th'North, an' that voice o'his could-a make a wil'cat purr,_  she laughed at her own bawdy humor.

 _It's not fer good an' all,_ the widow smiled secretly,  _he'll be comin' back soon enough then._

FINIS

**AN: Once again I must credit FanGrrrl6966 and her story "Shades of Yellow and Grey" for her idea of Sansa promoting literacy in the North.**


End file.
